Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep
by BitterSweetBish
Summary: November 2, 1983 Mary Winchester walked into the nursery of her infant son Sam, and never walked out again. Come down the road not traveled, and explore the lives the Winchester family could have had, had Mary simply gone back to bed that night.
1. And So It Begins

**November 2nd, 1983**

Mary stirred from a light sleep, a new mother attuned to the sounds of need, such as those currently emerging from the monitor. She had mumbled John's name, but having discovered she was alone in the bed, had roused herself to tend to Sam herself. Half asleep she had been grateful to see the dark silhouette over the crib. When it shushed her in response to her inquiries of Sam's needs, she had been happy enough to stumble back the bed and slip quickly into a much-needed sleep.

**August 1984**

She couldn't help but smile at the spectacle of her three boys running around the yard. John and Dean tossed a ball back and forth. Sammy buzzed around them, laughing and generally getting in the way. He was barely big enough to run without tripping over his own feet, and on a turn that went a little too sharp, that's exactly what happened. His small, inexperienced legs tangled up beneath him, and his delighted squeals became an outraged wail as he belly-flopped onto the grass.

Years of raising Dean had taught John and Mary the difference between a serious fall and a harmless tumble. Neither panicked, nor rushed to him. Sam wasn't hurt. He was just upset. Dean, however, had a slightly different world view. At the sound of his little brother's distress, he forgot all about the incoming ball, which landed bouncing on the ground as he turned to see Sammy on the ground, loudly expressing his displeasure at this unpleasant turn of events. The game forgotten, he rushed to Sam's side.

"Sammy, hey Sammy," he cooed to the distressed toddler, "It's all right. You're not hurt." Sam wailed. Dean started to pull him onto his lapped to cuddle. Sam was not calmed. Sam escalated. It was true. He wasn't hurt, and he wasn't crying. He was mad, and he was just yelling, outraged that the world was such an unfair place that awful things like falling down could happen.

Mary took a tentative step forward, debating if the time to step in had arrived. John caught her eye and gave a shake of his head, wordlessly saying, "Give him a minute. Let him learn this lesson."

Dean meanwhile, working his own plan, had retrieved the ball from where it lay abandoned on the ground. "Hey Sammy, you want the ball?" he coaxed. Sam's yells quieted as Dean pressed the ball, easily as large as Sam's torso into his arms. He looked at Dean, his baby face asking, "Can I really have it?"

"That's right, Sammy." Dean pulled the toddler up to his feet. "Now throw it! Throw it to Daddy."

Sam rewarded his brother's efforts by thrusting the ball away from himself with both hands, in John's general direction. The happy squeals returned, and he jumped in place, clapping pudgy hands.

"You did it, Sammy!" Dean exclaimed, rushing forward to scoop Sam up in a hug that yanked him of his feet. "Good job!" he spun, twirling Sam around, raising more happy squeal.

Across the yard, John smiled proudly. "You did it, Dean." he said quietly, "Good Job."


	2. In The Still Of The Night

**September 1988**

Dean wasn't sure what had woken him. Groggily he glanced around his darkroom. His eyes came to rest on the dark shape that stood in his doorway, silhouetted in the half-light of the hallway. Through sleep blurred eyes he watched silently as the shape crept across the floor, shuffling closer until it stood beside his bed.

He rubbed at his eyes tiredly, "Sammy? What're you doin' up? It's the middle of the night." he grumbled.

Sammy's puppy dog eyes seemed to take in Dean's whole field of vision, blocking out eveything else. "'M scared about t'morrow, De'."

"Jeez Sammy, it's just the first day of school. Go back to bed." Dean yawned deeply.

Sam didn't move. His deep, sad eyes never drifted from Dean's face, silently pleading.

With a heavy sigh, Dean scooted over and threw the covers back. Sam needed no more invitation to scramble into the bed and curl himself next to his big brother. Dean grudgingly put a reassuring arm around him. They stayed still and quiet for a bit, Dean fumbling through his tired mind for the right thing to say, Sam pressing against him as if he thought Dean could keep the morning from coming.

"You know," Dean eventually broke the silence, "Dad says it's OK to be scared. You just can't let it beat you."

Sam considered this for a moment. "Dad's real brave, isn't he?"

"Yeah Sammy, yeah he is. So all you have to do tomorrow is think, 'I'm going to be just like Dad.' Think you can do that?" he gave Sam an encouraging squeeze.

"I'll try." Sam dutifully promised. "Dean, can I stay here tonight?"

With a small sigh Dean said, "Yeah Sammy, you can stay...if you promise to sleep, not talk."

Sam drifted off as he was nodding in agreement.


	3. Follow That Dream

**May 1991**

The door to Sam's room burst open as he barreled in, fueled by excitement. "Sully!", he exclaimed, "You were right! I put all my courage in one big pile, just like you said, and told Dad I didn't want to play softball just because him and Dean do, and he said I don't have to! You know what? He asked me what I want to to do!"

"Way to go, buddy!" Sully praised his charge, holding up his hand for a high five that Sam had to jump to reach. "So what did you tell him?"

Sam's smile was giddy. "I...I didn't know what to say," he admitted. He had spent so much time sulking about being certain of hearing no, that he hadn't allowed himself to imagine what might follow hearing yes.

Now, however, the floodgates opened, his mind awash with possibilities. Sully smiled broadly as he listened to Sam ramble about magic, and plays, and computers, fresh bursts of excited words gushing from him with each new idea that struck him.

"Whoa Sam, take a breath." Sully interrupted when Sam was no longer completing thoughts before distracting himself with the next fanciful dream. He took Sam by the shoulders and looked him in the eye. "That all sounds so great. And do you know what the best part is? You've got your whole life to make all those dreams come true."

Downstairs John was preparing to leave. "Sam's not going with you?" Mary asked, wiping her hands on a dishtowel as she emerged from the kitchen.

"Nah," Dean announced loudly, bounding down the stairs three at a time before John could answer, "little freak's up in his room talking to himself."

"Dean Winchester, walk inside the house!" she scolded.

"I'm already outside," he answered over his shoulder, bolting out the door.

John laughed softly and then turned to see the sour expression on his wife's face. "He says he doesn't want to play this year." he quickly changed the subject, "I don't think we should try to force him."

Mary had to agree. "My father tried to force me to...follow family tradition, and..." she faltered realizing she had no good way to end a sentence that she shouldn't have started. She was saved by the blare of the Impala's horn from the driveway. "OK," she laughed with relief, "you'd better get Dizzy Dean out there to the sign-ups before he gets tired of waiting and leaves without you."

John kissed her cheek and hurried out the door, half afraid that Dean would do just that.


	4. Grave Matters

**October 31, 1995**

The Impala blended well into its current surroundings, black on black, traveling down the unlit road. Twin headlights stabbed into the dark, the beams dappled with the shifting mists of a light fog. Her engine growled, echoing into the empty air, a warning to any and all dangers to stay well clear of her and her passengers.

Sam was curled up in the back seat, where he had been relegated when Shawn had called shotgun, knees drawn up to his chin, and arms wrapped around his legs. "Dean," he spoke up, "Are you sure this is such a good idea? Mom would freak if she knew."

From the other side of the back seat, Lex barked with laughter, his mouth full of at least one fun-size candy bar. "Hey," he nudged Shawn in the shoulder, "I think Dean's little bro would rather be trick or treating with the other little kiddies." He didn't notice the snotty face Sam made at him.

Shawn looked over at Dean, who was biting his tongue, trying to keep his attention on driving with the minimal light. "I told you we shouldn't have brought him, not tonight."

Dean opened his mouth to reply, but was cut off by Lex barking, "Only way his ol' man would let him borrow the car, if he babysat the kid."

"Hey!," Dean snapped, throwing a glance over his shoulder, "Back off Sammy, or I swear, your butt'll be walking home."

Sam curled up tighter, not happy to be the center of attention. "He's gonna do fine." Dean continued. "Aren't you, Sammy? Everybody's gotta do this at least once. It's a rite of passage."

Sam uncurled, acutely aware of the heavy air of judgment on him. "I'll...I'll be fine, Dean." he forced out.

Shawn turned in his seat so he could meet Sam's eye, "It's really no big deal. We've all been. There's nothing out there but dead weeds and some old stones." Sam nodded. Shawn was really such a bad guy, not always.

It was past discussing anyway. Dean was already spinning the wheel under his hand, turning the car off the road, and bringing it to a stop outside the sagging, rusted fence. Sam leaned over the front seat for a better look. The gate sat right before them, illuminated in the headlights, sagging on time battered hinges. His eyes traveled upward, above the gate, to where the ancient looking sign read: STULL CEMETERY.

The boys tumbled from the car, the older three hooting and jeering, as adolescent males on a mission to do something stupid tend to do. Flashlight beams danced in the dark, casting long shadows in their wakes as the light played over dead foliage and the bars of the fence.

"You know," Lex popped up behind Sam's shoulder, making him jump, his light planted under his chin, transforming his face into a ghoulish mask, "they say the devil himself is supposed to come tonight."

Without warning, Dean grabbed Lex by the arm and spun him, pinning him against the car. "What did I say?" he growled, inches away from the other boy's face.

"All right, All right! Jeez, Dean, it's all part of the fun." Lex defended himself. "Didn't know you wanted the training wheels on for your baby bro." Dean looked at him coldly, his lip curling, part of him wondering just why it was that he hung out with this douche.

"Guys, we doing this?" Shawn interrupted. He knew them both well enough to know that Lex would keep running his mouth, and that Dean would not respond well, not where Sam was concerned. "Dean, come on. You know he doesn't mean anything. He just doesn't think. Don't make it more than it is."

Dean gave Lex one last warning look before releasing him with a shove. "Yeah, let's go." he conceded, and the three teens moved off towards the gate.

Sam was frozen. He'd watched the confrontation with a sort of detached disinterest. Lex's words had caused a sort of squishy, cold feeling in his middle. It wasn't fear exactly. It was more like...it was dread. He watched the other boys advance on the gate, but somehow, he couldn't get his own feet to move to join them.

He knew it was stupid. Everybody came out to Stull, just to prove they weren't too scared to do it. He even knew girls who had done it. Just, why did it have to be on Halloween, and why did Lex have to go and open his big, stupid mouth?

"Sammy?" Dean was watching him from near the gate. Sam just looked at him, not sure what to say, unable to take a step. "You guys go on," Dean told his friends, "we'll catch up." he started back towards where Sam stood rooted.

Whatever comment Lex was going to make was cut off when Shawn grabbed his shoulder and pushed him forward, "Come on, let's go." he said curtly. Their lights moved off into the darkness as their squabbling voices grew fainter with distance.

Dean sighed, he owed the guy a serious beat down, but later. He leaned up against the car, near where Sam stood glued. "You know, you don't have to do this."

Sam found his voice, "I'm not chicken, Dean." he snapped. "Everybody does this. You said so yourself." He hadn't been wild about the idea when it came up, would have been happy to beg off, but now, now he just wanted so bad for all Lex's needling not to be true. If only he could get himself to move. For all his resolve, however, his body seemed pretty content to stay right where it was.

"Yeah, I did," Deam admitted. He'd worked himself into a really good spot this time. This night, of all nights, well that was just too much for a kid's first time. He saw that now, now that it was too late. He really believed that Sam could have done it if Lex hadn't gone running his mouth, but the damage was already done. It was way too much to expect Sam to walk in there now. The kid had spunk, especially when he got his feathers ruffled, but this had all gone too far, and now Dean needed to find a way to let Sam off the hook and to get Sam to let himself off.

"You know though," he mused, "no matter what your friends tell you, most of them come out here in the daytime. Just coming this far, at night, Halloween night, you've already got that beat by a mile."

"Yeah?" Sam looked skeptical but sounded hopeful.

"Oh yeah, I'm proud of you, Sammy...Sam." he beamed. "Look, you wait here. I'm going to round up the guys, we'll blow this off, get some burgers or something. How's that sound?"

Sam hesitated, "That sounds real good, Dean." he finally said. The icy grip on his stomach eased up a bit. He hopped up to sit on the hood of the car, taking comfort from it, solid beneath him, still warm from the drive, as he watched Dean walk off into the dark, calling to the others.

Staying alone in the dark, even outside the fence, the silence amplifying every sound, turned out to be a little tougher than Sam had thought. The wind carried imagined voices, and rustled through dead branches, conjuring up images that he preferred not to dwell on. He wondered how long Dean had been gone. It seemed like a long time, but Sam knew that dark and isolation could change how time seemed to pass.

Something went thunk on the other side of the fence like something had hit the ground. He shone his light towards the sound, but couldn't make anything out through the shifting shadows. "Dean?" he called. The wind rustled through dry leaves, setting them rattling like a macabre wind chime.

Sam slid down off the car hood, his heart thumping in his chest. He peered into the dark, searching for some sight of the lights returning. "Dean!" he called again.

Barely aware he was doing it, his feet moved slowly towards the gate, coming to a stop just this side of it. He rested a hand on the weather-worn support, his eyes scanning the dark. The other side seeming somehow otherworldly, like crossing the gate would take him away to another place that he could never come back from. Steeling himself up, despite his pounding heart and heavy breathes, he stepped across. The world remained remarkably unchanged, and it felt kinda anticlimactic.

Encouraged, he continued forward, the beam of his flashlight catching flashes of the worn and crumbling markers as he approached them. "Dean!" he yelled.

He was well out amongst the graves now, ancient by the standards of a twelve-year-old boy. He tried not to imagine their occupants, long since decomposed into skeletal remains, frightening enough just lying there, let alone imagined digging their way up through the ground to do whatever it was they did to those foolish enough to trespass in this place on the night of the dead.

When the first pain lanced across his scalp, he'd thought for an instant that he'd been grabbed by something. The flashlight fell from his trembling hand. His cry was more fear than pain. The second pain, sharp, stabbing deep into his head, left him clutching his head, stumbling down to one knee. Through tear blurred eyes he could barely make out the lights bobbing towards him. The last thing he heard before passing out was Dean's panicked voice, calling his name.

**XXXXX**

It was warm and quiet. He didn't want to leave the warm place. It was nice. There was a sound. He listened. The mumble became more clear, became a word, a name, his name. Dully he dragged his eyes open.

Dean's face, etched with concern appeared over him. "Oh thank god!" Dean exclaimed, clutching him up into a tight hug. "You scared the crap out of me, you little pain in the ass."

"Wha' h'pen?" Sam mumbled, slowly coming out of it. They were in the back seat of the car.

"That's what I'd like to know," Dean demanded. "Jeez Sammy, didn't I tell you to wait here? What were you thinking, wandering out there all alone like that?"

"I...I, um" Sam couldn't seem to form an answer.

"Forget it" Dean interrupted. "You're all right. Everything's all right. Let's just get you home. Think you're OK to sit up?"

Sam rose a bit, testing, and then nodded. He dragged himself sitting as Dean backed out of the car to move to the driver's seat.

Lex moved to take the vacated spot as Dean cleared the way. Dean grabbed his arm and looked at him dangerously. "You say one word to him," he growled, "one, and you're a dead man. You hear me? Next time I come out here, it'll be to bury you."

Whatever snarky thing Lex had on his lips fell away when he caught the look in Dean's eye. For once he shut his mouth and just nodded in agreement.

**XXXXX**

"You went where?" Mary's voice was a mix of anger and amazement.

The brothers winced. Once Sam's lethargy had worn off, he'd been excessively pleased with himself for the night's adventure. He was going to have the tale of all tales to brag about at school. It was understandable that he had been babbling about it when they came in the door. It had just been bad luck that Mary had been sitting there when they came in and had heard everything before Dean could shush him.

"Sam, go upstairs," she said cooly.

Sam's guilty expression gave way to surprise. "Mom, it's only..." he started to protest.

"Now, please." Mary interrupted in a tone that left no room for further discussion. Pouting dramatically, Sam stomped up the stairs.

She watched until he was out of sight and then turned to her older son, who had painted on his charming, "get out of trouble" expression. Mary was having none of it. "What were you thinking, Dean?"

"Mom, it's no big deal." he shrugged off her concern. "Everybody does it. It's a manhood thing."

"It's a stupid reckless thing!" she countered. "Do you have any idea what could have happened?" Dean was taken by surprise. Mary tended towards overprotective, in his opinion, especially towards Sam, but she wasn't prone to outbursts.

"What could happen?" he argued. "Trip over something in the dark? Have a little scare? Nothing that couldn't have happened anywhere after dark. Seriously, Mom, it's not like the ghosts were gonna come up out of the ground and get us. "

Mary blanched, "I...um...no, you're right. Of course, you're right. I just...Dean, promise me you won't go out there anymore, OK?"

Dean wasn't sure what to make of the turnaround. Mary had seemed hornet mad when they came in, but now, she looked almost broken. "Yeah, sure Mom," he said meekly, all the bravado suddenly blown out of him. "I'm sorry, it was just the guys and me being dumb. We'll uh...it won't happen again." He fumbled for something else to say and the awkward silence stretched between them. "I'm...I'm just going to let Sam know, you know about steering clear of Stull from now on." he was more looking for a way to fill the silence and leave than anything else. He started up the stairs.

"Dean," Mary called after him, "I just want to make sure you and Sam are safe. I don't know what I'd do if anything ever happened to either one of you."

"Yeah, I know Mom," he answered, and continued up the stairs, thinking to himself how truly weird this night had been.


	5. The Growing Pains Of Sam Winchester

**April 1997**

Dean found Sam right where Mom had said he would be, sulking on the back porch. Bones was at his feet, whining and worrying at a ragged tennis ball until Sam picked up and morosely threw it. The dog bolted after it, bounded back and started the process anew. Sam gave the ball an angst-fueled throw that bounced it off the back fence. Bones was off again, gleefully unaware of Sam's angry growl.

"Oh Boy," Dean thought, "it's something big this time. " Mom hadn't gone into details, just said that it was a "man to man" kind of thing. Last time she said that the kid's voice had been changing. Dean cringed remembering that long, angsty summer.

Sam was ignoring Bones' urgent prompts for another throw, so Dean took pity on them both, plucked the ball up and gave it a good toss before plopping down on the step next to Sam. "Hey Sam, Mom said that, Whoa nice shiner!"

Sam didn't look at him, his eyes locked on the ground in front of him.

"Who'd you piss off?" Dean prodded.

"Brad Fulner." Sam muttered after a brief silence.

"Brad Fulner!" Dean was surprised. "Sammy, he's got two years, 5 inches, and what, at least 30 pounds on you! You got a death wish or something?" He elbowed Sam playfully in the ribs, "We need to have a little family intervention?"

Sam knocked his arm away, "He was bothering Sally Patterson and..."

Dean knew that name, "and she's the one you've been trying to work up the nerve to say hello to ever since you handled the moody lighting for her Winter Concert solo. OK, I think I see what happened here. Sam, this is good. Now she knows you exist."

Sam kicked the tennis ball Bones had again returned with. "She knows I got my butt kicked," he grumbled.

"Doesn't matter, dude. You tried to rescue her. Chicks love that." He clapped Sam on the shoulder, "Trust me, you're in."

Sam was silent. He knew Dean was just trying to help, but he couldn't because Dean couldn't understand. Dean could flash a smile and make girls fall in love with him. Dean could talk his way out of any trouble he got into. Dean could win any fight he wasn't able to charm his way out of. Dean just could not understand having to be Sam, no Sammy, little Sammy Winchester who had tried and failed.

He hadn't even been trying to impress Sally. He was just doing what was right, and OK, maybe he had lost his temper, just a little bit. And sure, it would have been awesome to win the fight and walk off with Sally on his arm like a hero, but he sure as hell didn't want her pity, especially since he'd only made it worse.

Brad wasn't going to stop, not now. Now he'd be worse than ever trying to egg Sam into another fight, a fight he would lose, and Dean didn't get any of that because Dean never lost anything, not a fight, or a girl, or anything. Dean just couldn't understand what it was having to be Dean's little brother. He gave the ball another angry throw and brooded.

"Dean," he said at last, "could you..."

"Hold it right there, Sammy." he cut his brother off with a raised hand. "Much as I'd love to pound this kid for you, I wouldn't be doing you any favors. He'd be after you every time I wasn't around, and you'd lose all the points you scored with you little girlfriend today."

"So you're not going to do anything?" Sam groused.

"Course I'm going to do something." he stood and dragged a reluctant Sam up to his feet, "because I am such an awesome big brother, I'm going to teach you how to fight."


	6. Baby Love

**July 1999**

The Impala slid smoothly into the driveway. Sam cut the engine and glanced over at Dean, inviting his approval. "Perfect landing, Sammy," Dean said, more impressed than he would allow his expression to show. He gave Sam a clap on the shoulder, silently trying to remember just when it was that his "little" brother had gotten taller than him, now all gangly limbs and awkward presence, as if the poor kid didn't always know just where to put all of himself.

The doors creaked as they exited the vehicle. "Dean really," Sam observed, "WD 40, a little squirt on each side." as he moved to retrieve the supplies Mary had sent them after.

"Oh yeah," the elder brother snarked back, "you're going to tell me how to look after a car." Sam laughed softly at the brotherly banter as he reached into the backseat for the bags and soda cases.

Dean already had his hands full, literally. Brenda had come out of the house and rushed to the driveway to throw her arms around his neck and kiss him warmly. "I missed you." she mock pouted.

"Missed me? Babe, we've been gone for like, twenty minutes." He threw an arm over her shoulder to usher her back towards the door. "You're getting to be a little high maintenance, you know that?" he teased giving her a little squeeze.

She moved her hand to gently rest on her stomach, which was beginning to plump, just a little bit. "Well then," she amended, "we missed you."

"Hey Dean," Sam called pulling cargo from the back seat, "You guys should plan on staying for dinner. Mom said to get two bags of buns." Straightening up, his arms loaded, he turned to see the couple locked in another embrace and an enthusiastic kiss. Dean held out one hand, thumbs up, to indicate that he had heard.


	7. Go West, Young Man, Go West

**September 2001**

"Mary," John scolded, "quit fussing over the boy. He's going to be just fine."

She continued her pointless fiddling with Sam's jacket. "Well, it's just that California is so far away," she raked Sam's mop off hair up out of his eyes. It promptly fell right back in, "and he's my baby...and..." Sam looked pained but was regardless enduring her attentions with all the tired tolerance he could muster.

Dean had been uncomfortably watching the scene unfold. He knew his brother, and he knew that Mary's fawning and worrying wasn't doing Sam any good. They were, in fact, lighting the fuse on Sam's natural self doubts and he could almost track how far it burned down the longer she had gone on. When John pulled her off of Sam, and into a reassurring hug, Dean had taken the opportunity to pounce.

Moving in swiftly, he grabbed Sam by the arm and steered him off through the airport crowd, just a short way, just enough to make some space and buy some time while Dad had Mom distracted.

"Dad's right, you know." he said once he'd settled them into a little island amidst the bodies that flowed around them, in pursuit of their own business, "You're going to be just fine." His face broke into an elated smile, "Damn Sammy, I am so freakin' proud of you, Stanford on a full ride." He punched Sam in the arm, a little too hard from the way Sam winced. OK, he was as bad as Mom, so sue him.

"Thanks Dean," Sam rubbed his arm. Whether he meant 'thanks' for the rescue or the praise was anybody's guess. "Guess Dad's going to have to find something else to do with that college fund." he snapped his mouth shut on the words too late. Dean had opted to put his fund towards a buy in on John's garage, and it was a sore spot between them. Sam just didn't understand why someone with his brother's potential would choose a life of oil changes and tire rotations. Dean defended the life that was good enough for their father as being good enough for him. The argument never got settled, just had lengthy cease fires.

"Hey," Sam broke the uneasy silence, "You take good care of Mom and Dad...and the garage. I'm going to need the family business to fall back on if this higher education thing goes bust."

Dean snorted, "Like I'd trust you under the hood of my own car, much less a customer's. I should never have let you drive her, put ideas in your head."

"Well," Sam countered, "I could manage the office. Do all that paperwork you're always avoiding."

Dean's sense snapped out of brotherly banter mode and onto high alert. Sam was starting to spiral. He grabbed ahold of Sam's shoulder. "You listen to me," he said firmly, "That is not going to happen, because you are going to take that big brain of yours off to Stanford and show those west coast, trust fund brats that anything they can do, a hard working, blue collar boy from the Kansas wheat fields can do better. You hear me?"

Sam shrugged non-committedly, earning himself a backhanded slap to the shoulder. "Hey!" Dean said sharply, "You hear me?" he repeated.

Sam straightened out of his slouch a bit, "Yeah, I hear you, Dean." He wasn't convinced, and Dean knew it, but he'd take it. Sammy was a process, always had been.

"That's my boy. Now you remember that. If I have to road trip all the way out to Cali to remind you, I'm gonna be pissed." Sam nodded in reply.

It was an old dance, choreographed over the course of their whole lives, the steps familar from repetition. Whether teaching him to throw a ball or throw a punch, Dean had always believed in Sam more than Sam did in himself. Dean would build him up, and after some initial resistance, Sam would allow it, more for Dean's sake than his own.

Through the crowd, Dean caught a glimpse of Mary bearing down on them, John in tow. He clapped Sam on the back turning him away from their approaching parents, trying to buy as many extra seconds as he could. "OK, real quick before Mom gets ahold of you again, I got you something. It's not a present or anything, it's just, well it's college, so it's just some stuff I know you'll be needing." He jammed a rumpled Gas Mart bag into Sam's pocket seconds before Mary smothered him in a tearful hug. Dean exchanged sympathetic looks with his father behind her back while Sam dutifully promised, yet again, to call every week.

It wasn't until Sam was settled on the plane that idle boredom led him to examine Dean's not-present. In all his time at school, he never did open either the bottle of aspirin or the box of condoms. Instead, they had a special place on his dresser, right beside the framed picture of his parents.


	8. Big Man On Campus

April 2002

This college thing definitely had some sweet advantages that Dean had not been fully able to appreciate before getting some first-hand experience. He was watching two of them walk by now, giggling and whispering, as they threw what they seemed to think were discreet glances in his direction.

"Ladies," he greeted them as they passed where he was standing, leaning up against the Impala, waiting for Sam to finish his last class for the day. He lifted his sunglasses so he could give them a wink to go along with the sly smile. "Mmm mmm" he hummed, watching them walk away, "Cali has got some fine scenery." If he had known, he'd have come sooner.

Sam's first spring break home had been a busy affair, cluttered with family gatherings during which Mary had been able to monopolize most of the time of her wayward son. That was pretty much what had lead Dean to suggesting that he drive Sam back to school rather than Sam taking a plane. The road trip had been awesome, just the two of them, arguing over the music, swapping stories, pulling pranks, just being brothers again in a way that Dean hadn't realized how much he had missed. The time had passed much too quickly.

The plan had been for Dean to stay a couple of days and then head back to Kansas. That had been over a week ago, and he showed no signs of heading out any time soon. For one thing, he was having way too much fun. His good looks, bad-boy demeanor, and sweet ride were attracting an enviable amount of female attention, and he had bonded quickly with Sam's friends, especially when it had been discovered that he was of legal age to buy the beer. He was eating up the attention like apple pie.

The other thing was, Sam didn't seem to be having any fun...at all...like ever. He had slipped back into type A. college student mode almost the second they had hit the campus and Dean had ached at the sudden loss of the carefree playfulness they had shared on the road.

He spent his days, while Sam was in classes, cruising around, enjoying the attention that a fully restored classic muscle car could attract and exploring various adult playgrounds, and his evenings trying to goad Sam into the occasional break for a little R and R. With his attempts unsuccessful he had postponed his departure for a day, and then another. Now the brothers had settled into a familiar routine and an unspoken agreement that Dean would leave when he left and not before.

"Sammy!" he yelled, waving his hand to catch Sam's attention when he'd emerged from the building, towering over the crowd of other students that pushed through the double doors.

Sam rolled his eyes as he crossed the distance to the car with long purposeful strides. Did Dean really think there was any chance that Sam could have missed him? That car was well known on campus now, and Dean himself was becoming the subject of some speculative gossip that ranged from mildly scandalous to entirely outlandish. Sam was frowning when he arrived, "It's Sam." he huffed, "and could you not yell? You're going to have the whole school calling me that."

"Yeah, yeah," Dean conceded, "Get in the car. School's out."

"So," he continued, once they were settled inside, "I found this drive in today. The burgers, freakin' awesome." He turned the key. "I figure we can hit it for dinner, and then..."

"Dean," Sam cut him off, "Finals, remember? Do we really have to have this conversation every day? I'm glad you're having fun. I am, but you're going to have to have it without me. I have to study."

"OK, OK," Dean grumbled, "But you're allowed to take time off to eat, right?"

"Yeah, we can go eat, but then you take me straight to the library. I mean it, Dean. Not like last night, no side trips, no pool halls, no strip clubs, deal?"

"How are we even related?"

"Dean."

"Yeah, all right, deal." he snapped. "We'll just save it all up for your birthday. Make an epic, all-day event of it."

They lapsed into silence as Sam seemed to be thinking of a way to answer.

"What?" Dean prodded, "Don't tell me you weren't even planning to take your birthday off."

Sam shifted uncomfortably, "No, it's just, that's still over a week away. I didn't realize you planned to be around that long is all."

"So you're telling me to get lost." Dean turned his head to give his brother an accusing look.

"What? No." a horn blared, "Dean! Eyes, road, road!"

"Crap!" Dean shot his eyes back front and got the car back between the lines.

"Dean, of course, I want you here." Sam ventured once they'd calmed from the excitement. "It's been great. I just didn't figure you could get away that long. You've got work. You've got a family."

"I've got family right here, Sam." Dean snapped, then continued more gently, "I'm worried about you, man. You're gonna burn yourself out."

"I'm fine." Sam insisted.

"You're really not." Dean cut the wheel to pull into the drive-in. It was a 50s style retro place and he couldn't help but enjoy the way the Impala fit into the environment.

The food was every bit as good as Dean had promised, and by the time they were finishing, they were both in a better mood, despite Sam's disapproval of the way Dean had been chatting up the car hop.

"What about the garage?" Sam asked as he gathered up burger wrappers and uneaten fries.

"Perks of being a partial owner, Sammy. I can set my own schedule."

Sam knew what John would have to say to that, but didn't voice it. "OK, well, what about Brenda? Is she all right with you being away that long?"

It was Dean's turn to shift uncomfortably. "Um, yeah, about that, not really an issue anymore."


	9. Co-pilot

**October 31, 2005**

"So how's it feel to be the golden boy of your family?" Riley asked.

"He's not," Dean responded before Sam could, muscling his way through the party crowd with a fresh round of beers for the table. "You know, Johny was the first kid in his class to learn how to write his name?" he continued, passing out bottles.

Sam chuckled, "Yeah, that's definitely got me beat." He raised his fresh beer in a silent toast to his nephew.

"He was so scared that first day," Dean had a mischevious glint in his eye as he settled back into his chair, "so I told him about how before his uncle Sammy's first day of school..."

"Oh dude, no!" Sam interrupted, "Do not tell that story!"

Brady, Jerry, and Riley all chimed in at once, encouraging Dean, oh yes dude, tell the story, already snickering in anticipation.

Ignoring Sam silently mouthing, "Dean, no." at him he leaned in and began, "OK, so I'm nine years old, wait, ten, no nine, because Sam was five, so it is the middle of the night..."

"So dean, speaking of Johny, how's Brenda? You guys on again or off again this week?" Sam interrupted.

Dean went quiet and took a swig of his beer, trying to hide his expression behind the bottle. He knew the drill by now. Brenda had lost most of her patience with the frequency and length of his California visits. He'd accepted that sleeping in his car at the garage until he talked his way back into the house, or until John found out and hauled his butt home to stay in his old room was just part of the deal. Didn't mean Sammy had to know about it. "Let's just say, when you kick it in the ass at that interview Monday, there's no reason why I can't still be around to help you celebrate."

"Seriously Dean, when are you just going to go ahead and marry her?" He'd put his foot in it, and he knew it, so now he was just going to bull through it.

"Dude, what do you want from me? I've proposed three times, four if you count when she dropped the baby bomb. I'll marry her when she can plan a wedding without dumping me for being an..." finger quotes, "...insensitive jerk."

"What? You? Insensitive? Nah." Riley joked.

"I know right?" Dean basked in the mock praise.

"Well Dean, you did suggest holding the reception at Hooters." Sam reminded him.

The others choked on their drinks, sputtering and laughing. "Oh man, you didn't." Jerry managed to gasp out.

"That was not my fault!" Dean protested. "She caught me by surprise while I was thinking about the bachelor party." He took another gulp of his beer and continued as he swallowed, "Which you," he pointed at Sam. "should have been planning for me, so really that one's on you for shirking your best man duties." He smiled in satisfaction, silently daring Sam to argue with that.

"And every time she calls off the wedding, you still go ahead with the bachelor party, so I figured you were good." Sam countered.

Loud shrieks drew their attention to another table where a guy was teasing a group of girls with a rubber spider. The conversation got put on hold as they all took time to appreciate the resulting bounces and jiggles, enhanced by the sexy costumes that seemed to be the college co-ed Halloween go to.

As much as Dean enjoyed the sight, he wasn't so distracted that he missed the longing way Sam's gaze lingered over a leggy blonde in a nurse costume.

"Speaking of girls, little brother," he seized the opportunity to take back the upper hand, "I admire your taste, but that one, way out of your league."

Sam fixed him with the familiar, half annoyed, half pouting, look that Dean called his bitch face. "You know," he said, "Brenda's right about you. You are an insensitive jerk."

"Rather be a jerk than a bitch," Dean muttered into his bottle as he grabbed a sip.

The other guys shifted uncomfortably in their chairs. Someone cleared their throat in the heavy silence. Both brothers simultaneously burst into laughter, trading playful shoves across the table.

"And I'll tell you this," Dean said, "Monday we are ditching this college kid, frat party crap, and I am taking you guys," he waved taking in the whole table, "to a real bar, somewhere we can shoot some pool, and hear Zep on vinyl."


	10. Second Skin

**November 29, 2005**

This was just too surreal. Sam couldn't quite get his mind to fully accept it. If it was true, everything he thought he knew was wrong. The world simply made no sense. His thoughts were interrupted by the image that flashed into his mind. He shook his head in an effort to banish the blood streaked face of the terrified woman. Her scream echoed on even after the visage of her open mouth and fear blown eyes had faded. That was just a dream, he told himself firmly. People have dreams. Dreams can get really weird. It doesn't mean anything.

He looked at the phone in his hand. It was the third time he had picked it up intending to make the call. His stomach gave a queazy twist, and he almost put it back down yet again, but he forced himself to continue. It wasn't going to get any easier. In fact, the longer he waited, the harder it would be, and not calling simply wasn't an option. Steeling himself, he selected the number and listened as each ring sent a fresh wave of nerves through his gut.

"Hello?" she sounded almost emotionless. No, not emotionless Sam realized, just drained, too overloaded to have in her to express what she must be feeling. She was probably tired from a lack of sleep, and her system undoubtedly overtaxed by the events of the past few days.

It was the moment of truth, the point at which he had to say something in a situation in which there was simply no right thing to say. "Becky, hi, it's Sam." Great start, he chided himself. You sound like you're calling to ask her out. He cleared his throat. "I just wanted to...how are you holding up? I just heard." He was wishing he had spent less time obsessing about the call, and more thinking about what he should say once he did.

"Oh Sam, I uh, you know... not good I guess. It's hard. Our parents are out of the country, so I'm all alone right now, and.." she trailed off and it was hard to tell if she had run out of things to say, or just where with all to say them.

"Becky, what happened?" it was abrupt, maybe a little crass, but an awkward silence would have been worse, so Sam had just blurted and hoped for the best. "I mean, this is all so...just, what happened?"

"I don't know. Nobody knows. I just know that Zach didn't do this." Her voice was cracking now. Sam could easily imagine the tears wetting her lashes. "He couldn't have."

"Hey, hey, calm down," he tried to soothe her, "of course he couldn't. Anyone that knows Zach would know that." His mind played a clip of the bound and bloodied woman, screaming as the knife descended to silence her with a sickening shink. He pushed it away so he could focus on being there for Becky.

"No, I mean, he couldn't have done it." her voice took on an urgent tone, and Sam couldn't decide if it was good that she seemed to be coming out of the lethargy, or bad that she was getting herself worked up and upset. "He was with me at the time, Sam." she continued. "I swear, it was out last big night to hang out before I went back to school. He was here past midnight. The police won't believe me. Oh god, if we had just gone out there's be other witnesses, or if Emily had come over with him she'd still be..." unable to continue she ended with a choked sob.

"Becky, listen to me. I believe you." Sam insisted, even as the memory of blood splashing onto Zach's face, his features twisted into a satisfied, sadistic grin flashed in his thoughts. Just a dream, he reminded himself, just a stupid, meaningless dream with really bad timing. "Look," he forced a calm tone for Becky's sake, despite how truly freaked he was by what his mind was doing to him, "if he's innocent, I mean **since** he's innocent, they'll figure that out, right? It's all going to be OK. They can't convict without evidence, and there won't be any because he didn't do it."

"I keep telling myself that." she seemed a little calmer.

"You know I'd be there if I could."

"I know, Sam. It's fine. I'll be fine. It's just a lot, you know? But you're right, the investigation will clear him, and then it'll just be a bad memory to rehash in therapy someday. We just have to get through this part first."

"You know, if there's anything I can do, be a character witness, or if you just need to talk, you call me." He felt like all he was really doing was running down a list of things you're expected to say in troubled times. It felt so impotent.

"I'll do that, Sam. Thanks."

"OK, well then, you take care of yourself. You sound like you need to try and get some rest. I'll call you in a couple of days, to check on you."

"OK, bye Sam" it sounded so final. The message was clear. No matter how this worked out she wasn't going to be in a place to pursue their budding relationship. A few dates didn't put him on the hook to play the supportive boyfriend, and he shouldn't wait for her.

He didn't feel any better for the awkward conversation being done and over with. There was nothing he could really do, for either of them, except say the "supposed to say" words, and that felt like so little.

Laughter, too malicious to be Zach's, but unmistakably his all, the same, resounded against his skull. Yeah, and then there was that. What the hell was happening to him?


	11. Where The Heart Is

**April 1, 2006**

Sam felt much better here in the backyard, perhaps it was the fresh air. Since arriving home last night he had felt off. An oppressive, nervous sort of feeling had crept over him as soon as he had crossed the threshold of the Winchester family home. Mary had fretted, concerned that he was coming down with something, and he had begged jet lag in an attempt to put her at ease. While she had relented, Sam had noticed this morning that 'tomato rice soup' was listed on the shopping list that she kept hung in the kitchen. He'd decided not to bring it up.

It wasn't jet lag, and despite his effort to reassure his mother Sam knew it. He'd made enough trips home from the coast to know very well what that felt like, and this wasn't it. This was more when you know, without looking, that someone is watching you. He hadn't really slept well last night, which he kept telling himself had nothing to do with the eerie feeling of not being alone in the room.

If he were to be honest with himself, he'd have to admit that he hadn't been sleeping very well, not just last night, but for months. He'd been explaining away bizarre dreams and severe headaches as typical signs of stress. Lord knows, a first year law student had ample reason to feel stressed.

For now however, some of the cloud seemed to have lifted when he had stepped out the back door and into the gentle warmth of a mid-western spring, and he was going to allow himself to enjoy that.

He'd been sent out to light the grill for the cook out, which had been mainly a way to get him out of the kitchen and out from underfoot. The pile of briquets he'd poured out lay forgotten as he'd become distracted by Dean and Johny playing catch on the grass. He smiled at the memories that played out in his mind. If he tried, he could almost imagine Bones bouncing around between them, trying to steal the ball, the same way he always had with the brothers when they had been younger.

It made Sam a sad sort of happy to think of his old pet. The last time he had seen Bones had been the day he left for Stanford. The grey in the muzzle retriever must have sensed that something was different that day, judging by his distressed whine. Sam had never really forgiven himself for not being there for him when old age had taken the dog a few months later. He liked the idea that, in some way, Bones might still be around, still watching over the family.

"How's it coming?" his father's voice behind him jolted him out of his thoughts.

"Oh, it's coming." Sam responded, snatching up the can of lighter fluid and hastily squirting the coals, trying unsuccessfully to hide that he'd been daydreaming.

John didn't say anything right away. His attention too had been drawn out into the yard, where Dean was pretending to be barreled over by a tackle. It was an infectious sort of sight. John smiled with amusement as his son and grandson wrestled around on the ground. Dean was a pretty good father, when he got around to it. John wished that Dean's home life was a little more stable. He and Brenda spent almost as much time split up as together, but John rationalized, at least Dean did always end up going home eventually. Things could be worse.

Right now, he was more concerned about Sam. With the woman busy working in the kitchen, and the "kids" busy playing in the yard, he'd come out hoping that he and Sam could have some time alone to talk. "Are you doing OK, son?" he asked. "You've seemed kind of distracted. Is there a problem at school, or maybe with that..what was her name, Bonnie?"

"Becky," Sam corrected him, "that didn't really work out. She had, family stuff." What could he really say? He hadn't told his family about Zach's arrest, nor about the damning piece of evidence in the form of a video that had surfaced. He certainly hadn't told them that he'd had some sort of creepy dream about the crime, before it had even happened. He was having a hard enough time with that himself without finding ways to work into a conversation. "I guess the world's just getting a lot more complicated all of a sudden." Sam continued, "I'm starting to figure out how much there is that I don't know, how much we don't know about, just everything."

John's smile betrayed his relief, "Sounds to me like you're growing up. It happens to all of us sooner or later." He spared a glance over to where Dean was making a show of being helplessly pinned by his six year old son. "Some of us a lot later." he joked and the two shared a laugh.

"Sam," John continued after a bit, returning his attention to his younger son, "you never could leave a question unanswered. You just don't have it in you, but some questions just don't have answers, at least not ones that humans can understand. All a man can do is his best,"

"I guess." Sam agreed reluctantly. He appreciated John's effort but he didn't need the 'ushering into adulthood' his father was trying to give him. He needed to understand what was going on in his head, but how do even start that conversation. It was all too crazy to try to discuss. "Hey Dad," he spoke tentatively, "did you ever have a dream come true?"

"I sure did," John threw an arm around Sam's shoulders and turned a warm smile towards Dean and Johny's roughhousing in the yard, "the very best dream."

That hadn't been at all what Sam had meant, but he kept it to himself. That moment had been far too perfect to ruin.


	12. Where Ever I'm With You

**April 3, 2006**

The house was quiet after a weekend filled with too many bodies in too little space and cluttered with conversation as everyone tried to catch up at once. Mary had been left frazzled by two days full of the hustle and bustle of family, the brothers going out of their way to annoy one another, a grandson underfoot vying for attention. She had loved it, right up until Saturday evening dinner.

The family had been crowded around the table, too small for so many people, Brenda cutting Johny's burger into pieces, Dean laughing loudly at one of his own jokes with his mouth full, John beaming proudly at the whole scene when it had happened.

"Hey," Sam had asked casually while reaching for the potato salad, "any of you believe in ghosts?"

"What?" she had stammered, barely catching herself before she dropped her glass. "What would you ask that?"

"No reason," he'd responded. "I just thought I saw old Bonesy out in the yard earlier. It got me to wondering, is all."

Her instinct had been to shut the topic down immediately, but she'd been stunned to silence. She'd just sat numbly, unsure how to react, as the variety of conversation typical of know-nothing civilians, speculations and campfire stories had begun to swirl around her. It had been Brenda that put a stop to it by deeming the subject inappropriate in front of a child Johny's age. If not for the questions it would have raised Mary could have kissed her.

Of course, Mary had suspected that Bones might still be around. The signs of a spirit manifestation had been apparent to anyone that knew what to look for.

Sipping at her coffee she let her memories drift to the day that the ragged stray had followed Sam home, on a wounded leg so infected he couldn't put weight on it. He'd been a sight, dirty, matted fur, crawling with god only knew what kind of parasites, initially obscuring just how emaciated the poor thing had been, just skin and bones really. That was how he'd gotten his name.

It had been heart-wrenching for her and John to try and explain to Sam that it would probably be the kindest thing to have the dog put down. Their parental resolve had been no match for Sam's sad puppy dog eyes. In the end, John had bundled the boy and the dog into the car and headed off to a vet.

It had been a hard wait. Considering Bones' condition she had fully expected that the vet would recommend putting him to sleep, that they were just postponing the inevitable in the difficult talk they would have to have with their young son. It had been a surprise when the pair had returned with a bandaged, fed, and thankfully, somewhat groomed new member of the family.

He wasn't out of the woods. For the next several days Sam had fussed over and tried to nursemaid the weak animal with endearing devotion while his parents silently prepared to console him. Each morning they anticipated being awoken by the boy's anguished cries, and each morning it failed to happen.

Somehow Bones had beat the odds and survived. He'd bonded with Sam as if he understood that it was Sam to whom he owed his life. It wasn't surprising that he would still be around. When Bones had finally died, years later, he had been waiting for Sam to come home. He was still waiting, staying loyal even in death.

She hadn't been particularly troubled by it. Bones was no more a threat to her family as a spirit than he had been in life. She would have preferred it to stay a secret though, like anything supernatural, and there her family had been, sitting around her, talking about it as if it were something fun, some kind of game.

She'd hoped that would be the end of it, a quirky conversation, not notable and easily forgotten by anyone with no reason to think any more of it. That hope was dashed when she'd woken that night to discover Sam in the kitchen raiding the dinner leftovers.

The story he told had chilled her. He'd been woken by an urgent, agitated barking. A dream, he'd reasoned, realistic enough to have woken him. She'd listened with her mouth going dry as he'd described coming awake to the sight of the long dead Bones growling and bristling at the closet door.

She'd noticed signs, skittering sounds, electrical hiccups, but she'd attributed them to Bones' presence and hadn't dwelt on them. She knew now that had been a mistake.

A dream Sam had said, and she would have like to have believed that. It would have made everything so much simpler. She'd allowed him to believe it, lied straight to his face, with all good intentions of protecting him from knowledge that could be nothing but a burden to him.

She couldn't lie to herself, however. A lifetime of living in denial had never made her forget. A protective spirit sounding an alarm was a warning she dared not ignore. Something was in her house, and she had to get rid of it before anyone else found out. She'd wanted to leave this life behind her, and now the only way to do that was to walk right back into it.

Now finally, after a nerve wracking Sunday, she had the house to herself, with John out the door on his way to work, and Sam off to visit with local friends. Sam had been visibly ill at ease in the house since arriving home. She hadn't missed the way he looked for any excuse to go out into the yard, or stretch his legs with a walk. He'd been out the door this morning even before John. She felt confident that she would have time to act without fear of discovery.

A tingly nervous feeling ran through her frame at the thought of what she was considering, but what else could she do? She needed help, and she needed it fast. She knew what she had to do.

In a catch all desk drawer, buried under an accumulation of the sort of papers probably not worth keeping, but that never seemed to make it to a trashcan was an envelope, the latest of many she had received over the years. The first had arrived shortly after her marriage, addressed to Samual Campbell, c/o Mary Winchester, only the name R C Hunter in lew of a return address.

It had almost gone into the trash unopened. It was part of an old life that she no longer wanted any part of. She had opened it however, discovering inside only a sheet of paper on which was written nothing but a phone number. Periodically a new one would arrive, which she would keep carefully hidden, making sure its predecessor had been thoroughly burned.

R C Hunter, Robert Campbell-hunter, her father's brother, had left a door open for her, discreetly ensuring that she always had a working contact number. Up til now, she had never called any of them. After the first, she hadn't even bothered to open them. Out of family loyalty, or maybe guilt, she had kept each one, one tiny bit of Mary Campbell, buried under a lifetime's worth of Mary Winchester's junk papers, at the bottom of a drawer no one ever opened.

She'd wrestled with the decision. It had been the better part of thirty years that she had pushed aside the hand that had been offered. That door, once opened, could not easily be shut again. To make that call would be to step back into the world she had tried so hard to run from, but she had no real choice. She knew this. Her family was in danger, and continued denial would not save them.

Resolved, she drained the last of her coffee and rose from the chair. Under old receipts, expired warranties, and no small amount of dust, her past waited for her to come back to it.


	13. Where I H ang My Hat

**April 3, 2006**

Mary checked over her supplies, grateful that the rituals were both fairly simple. She had stressed to her uncle that she would be working alone and that time was of the essence.

It had been an awkward conversation, apologies and explanations, but she had come away from it with the information she needed, two rituals, a binding and a banishing that should cleanse the house.

The first was the more complicated of the two, requiring a sigil drawn at each compass point, and candles lit between each pair. She'd practiced each one until she could draw them quickly from memory. Once the binding was completed, she could safely perform the banishing. Until then, she'd be in danger of attack should the poltergeist deduce what she was up to.

The basement, she had decided was the best place to work. Chalked sigils could be easily washed from the concrete floor, destroying the evidence of what had transpired. She read over her notes, step by step, packing each item into a box as she came to it. Once she began she would have to work fast, no returning upstairs for anything carelessly left behind.

Such were the risks of hunting alone. Uncle Robert had offered to come, but she had insisted that this needed to be done today. She didn't have the luxury of waiting for him to come from out of state. She'd promised to call again when it was all over and check in.

Finally satisfied that she was as prepared as she was going to get she picked up the box holding her inventoried tools and supplies and headed downstairs.

XXXXX

The basement was stacked with dusty boxes of various sizes, filled with memories and clutter. The dim light of a single bare bulb didn't so much vanquish the darkness as beat it back into the corners, where it pooled up and became even deeper.

Mary's heart rate quickened a bit. She had never wanted to do this again. Her hesititation lasted only a second or two before she snatched up the salt and began laying out the circle. The sooner she finished, the sooner she could forget all about this and go back to pretending that everything was normal.

The circle finished she checked quickly around herself. So far, everything seemed quiet. Encouraged, she began the first sigil. Skitters and scratches sounded from the darkness beyond the pale circle of light.

Mary paused, listening into the dark, trying to assess whether the sound was spiritual in origin or echos of the chalk against the concrete. The scratching seemed to have stopped. She went back to work. She paused again when the sounds returned. This time they continued on, taking on an almost mocking sort of air.

She cursed under her breathe, quickening her hand. She'd hoped for more time before discovery. The chalk clacked and scraped on the concrete as she hastened to finish her task.

Outside the circle, a pile of aged boxes began to tremble, rattling threateningly as she worked to get the final sigil completed. She was just finishing the last mark when she caught a flash of movement out of the corner of her eye and she threw herself aside, barely avoiding the box that flew through the space where her body had been.

Determined, she crawled back towards the circle, now broken, scuffed by her evasive move. She just had to get the candles in place and lit, then three words of Latin ad she'd be safe.

Overhead, the bare bulb flickered, casting the room into intermittent darkness, like a flash of lightning in reverse. Ominous shadows danced macabrely in the sporadic light.

The bulb exploded violently, allowing the dark to escape the corners and rush to refill the room. Unable to see Mary jammed her hand into her pocket fishing for the book of matches she had thankfully carried there, instead of in the box of supplies. She may be thirty years rusty, but her instincts weren't completely dead. That thought gave her hope. With shaky hands, she struck a match. The scant light of the the single small flame carved a circle out of the darkness.

By the minimal light, she located one of the candles and touched the flame to the wick. The match was well burnt down by that time. By the time the wick took the flame the match was so short that her thumb nail singed. The unpleasant smell of burnt keratin reached her nose. Ignoring it she placed the candle and went digging after the next. 'Relligo malum spiritus' played in her head like a mantra as she struggled towards the moment that she could speak the words and get the poltergeist locked down.

She got the second candle lit and placed, was reaching for the third when she felt the chill of an unseen hand on the back of her collar. Before she could react she was flung backward, coming to rest in a crumpled heap against the wall she had crashed into.

She tried to rise but found herself pinned in place. Urgent, desperate sounds escaped her throat as she struggled futilely against the invisible force. Inwardly she cursed herself as a fool for not having reclosed the circle first thing.

A soft squeak of metal against metal drew her attention upwards in search of the source of the sound. The candlelight was barely enough for her to make out the sight of the broken off base of the shattered light bulb rotating in the socket. Able to see where this was going she renewed her frantic struggle against the force that held her.

The broken bulb freed itself from the socket and drifted towards her, rotating in its flight, angling the jagged shards in her direction. She watched, eyes filling with horror as the sharp points closed the distance with her face.

Desperately she tried to turn away in an effort to protect her eyes, but she was held fast.

Her heart pounded when the sharp glass touched her cheek. She braced herself for the pain but instead of slicing into her flesh the jagged glass scratched across the skin of her cheek, laying a course for her right eye. She made a frightened whimper and closed her eyes in a useless attempt to protect them.

Without preamble, a force like a sudden high wind shot past her. The room filled with the sound of canine anger. The bulb base was knocked flying and she felt herself suddenly free.

Sparing no time on her confusion she scrambled forward, back towards the remnants of the salt circle. Behind her a stack of boxes toppled violently, the contents scattering across the floor.

Back in the circle Mary grabbed up the salt and reclosed it around herself. Outside the boundary, the invisible battle raged loudly. Working quickly she got the remaining candles lit and placed, the word of the evocation on her lips as she was placing the last one.

The room fell silent.

With the poltergeist bound the banishing ritual went smoothly and without incident, for which she could not have been more grateful. It was over. Her breathes were heavy. Her pulse pounded in her head causing a rushing sound in her ears. She couldn't be sure with her distorted hearing, but as she climbed the stairs, she thought she might have heard the click of canine nails beside her.


	14. Sunrise, Sunset

**April 7, 2006**

From the front door, Sam took in the sight of the Impala in the driveway, his brother buried under the hood. He could easily imagine the circumstances that had lead Dean to come here to their parent's home for the pre-trip tinkering rather than doing it at his place. He flushed lightly, embarrassed that it had taken him so long to pick up on the pattern in Dean's visits at school and his domestic problems.

The annual Winchester brother's post break, Kansas to Cali road trip was now in its fifth year. Truth be told, Sam loved them as much as Dean did. He would arrive back at school refreshed and relaxed, just the right mindset for diving into the hard work ahead. Dean could be a pain in the ass once they'd arrived and he needed to buckle down to his studies, but Sam had to admit, having his brother there to force the occasional break on him and save him from burn out had been a good thing. Be all that as it may, things had to change, for Dean's sake.

Summoning his resolve, Sam squared his shoulders and crossed the yard to where Dean was working and happily humming "Ramble On". "Hey, Sammy," he called over his shoulder, hearing Sam's approach, "hand me a three quarter's crescent, wouldja?" With a mischevious smirk, he continued, "That's the one with the little three, and the little four."

"I know what a three quarters is, Dean." Sam sighed, handing it over.

"Sure you do." Dean joked. He was in a good mood. Sam hated to ruin it.

For a moment he considered letting it go. Maybe they could do this one last trip and he could find the right time on the road to let Dean know that this would be the last one, give him a whole year to get used to the idea. He liked that idea better himself. Dean wasn't the only one that had been looking forward to the trip.

He remembered the call he'd just taken from Brenda. "Just wanted to make sure he got there safe...tore out of the driveway like a Duke's of Hazard re-run...no, don't tell him I called."

No, Sam decided, just like a band-aid, all at once, get it over with. "So, Dean," he bagan hesitently, "I was thinking, maybe I should just fly back to school this year."

"Sammy, you know I'm not a good flier." Dean answered, wrestling with a stubborn bolt. "Look, if this is about last year, I promise, I won't play Highway To Hell more than three time in a row, OK?"

Sam inhaled deeply, "No dean, I mean, well you've got responsibilties here. We're not kids anymore, and," here we go, "maybe it's time for me to go to school without my big brother to hold my hand."

BOOM

Dean went still. With each secend that dragged past Sam felt more that anything Dean might say would be better than the pregnant silence. "Um yeah, OK." Dean said at last. "You go ahead and hop a plane, and I'll be out in a couple of weeks, you know for your birthday." The false casual tone he tried to present did nothing to hide his hurt.

"No Dean, that's, I mean..." a lump rose in Sam's throat. He really didn't want to be doing this. "I think it's better if we..."

"You don't want me coming at all. Is that it?" Dean cut him off, finally pulling himself out from under the hood and letting Sam look him in the eye.

Oh great, Sam thought, of course Dean would take it that way. "Oh god Dean, of course I want you there, but it's time to start figuring out, we don't always get everything we want. Dad needs you at the garage. Brenda and Johny need you to...well, they just need you. You need to stop living your own life part time trying to look after me...and I need to let you."

"Yeah, whatever." Dean mumbled, slamming the car hood harder than was necessary. He turned to stalk off, intent on raiding the cooler. At least the beer wouldn't go to waste.

Sam grabbed him by the arm, "Dean, stop it! You know what? You don't get to do that. You don't get to just walk away from this. Look, you've been there for me my whole life, and I appreciate it, I really do, but now it's my turn to be there for you. You could build something really good for yourself here, if you would just do it. I will be fine, just like Dad said, just like **you** said five years ago."

"Wow, you were actually listening." Dean snarked, jerking his arm out of Sam's grasp. "I'm surprised."

Sam refused to take the bait. "Yes, I was listening, and you know what? You were right. I don't need..." He clamped his mouth closed. No way, "I don't need you to take care of me anymore." would have gone over at all well. He chose his next words carefully, "Johny needs his dad more than I need my big brother. I have to step back and let that happen. Now, get in that rolling antique you're so proud of, take your dumb ass home, and beg that wonderful girl, who puts up with you for reasons I'll never understand, to forgive you for planning on running out on her again."

Dean blanched. The ghost of words he hadn't bothered to listen to an hour before replayed in his head. "Damn it Dean, I used to like to drink too much, and drive too fast, and stay out too late too, when we were kids! We've **got **a kid now. We've got a mortgage. You've got a business to run. We are adults, at least I am. Do you have any plans on ever getting in the game?" It hadn't been anger that had sent him screeching out of the driveway. He'd just wanted to put distance between himself and the problem. He'd just been running away he admitted to himself, ashamed.

It was rare that Dean Winchester found himself speechless, but there he was, his mind void of any response. He was confused. Suddenly all the rules were changing, and he didn't seem to be able to keep up.

"Dean," Sam's voice, gentle yet firm, broke the silence, "go home."

"Yeah," Dean responded absently, "I think maybe I should do that." The driver's side door creaked when he opened it. "But hey, Sammy," he called to his brother over the top of the open door before ducking into the seat, "I'll call you, you know, for your birthday."

Sam gave him a warm smile, "You'd better." He hoped his voice didn't betray the ache in his heart.

XXXXX

Dean had gone, but not home. He couldn't, not yet. He knew Sam had been right and had to admit, Brenda had been nothing short of a saint to have taken him back so many times. Now the guilt was gnawing a hole in him, and he just couldn't face her.

Perched on the hood of his car, working his way through his second beer he tried to sort out just where it had all gone so wrong. He'd started out with the best of intentions, making sure Sam hadn't been alone, with no family, on the big days.

Sam got home for holidays as often as he could. The times he couldn't would always see Dean on the road, pedal down, tunes cranked, big brother to the rescue. The yearly road trip had been his favorite. Sam had been saddled, in his opinion, with a bummer of a birthday, early May, too soon after break to get away again. Dean knew without him there, Sam would just blow it off altogether. After the first year, when it had just sort of worked out that way, it was just understood that once the trip was over Dean was there for the duration.

Oh and he had loved it, the parties, the attention lavished on the cool older brother that could buy the booze and be the wheelman. No worries, no responsibilities, unlike the "kids" he'd surrounded himself with while he played at being an adult, pretending that few extra years under his belt made any kind of difference.

Thinking of the girls made him grimace. They had been fawning, flirty little things, attracted by the mystique, the image, the car. He berated himself for the times he'd surrendered to the temptation. What the hell, right? Brenda was going to dump him when he got back, if not before. Might as well deserve it. Might as well let a kiss or a slow dance, or whatever depending on how drunk he was take the edge off the sting.

He had to admit, and he would have avoided it if he could, that it wasn't about Sam, hadn't been for a long time. It had been at first, just him doing his job, looking after his baby brother. Things had changed, however. Somewhere along the line it had stopped being Sam needing him, and became him needing Sam to need him. Looking after Sam had given way to the fear that Sam was outgrowing him.

The truth was, he realized morosely, Sam **was **outgrowing him, but not because Sam was growing up. Out of the two of them, Sam was the only that was growing up, and that was the problem. Sam was outpacing him.

Sam's whole life, Dean had already been wherever Sam needed to go. Bully problems, girl problems, puberty problems, Dean had been there first. He could handle it all because he'd already explored and charted that territory and could guide his little brother through it with a sure hand gained from hard learned lessons.

Then college happened, and Sam had gone off to an alien world that he had no clue about, and he had freaked. He'd tried to introduce himself into that world, an effort to keep Sam from drifting too far away.

Only not really, because it wasn't really Sam's new world he'd become part of. That world was classes and studying, and high goals that Sam had set for himself, a grown-up place. Dean had been proud of all that, but his priority had been getting Sam to go out and play with him, to stay his little brother. If Sam never grew up, then Dean didn't have to, but Sam was growing up. He saw that now. He couldn't stop it, so if he was going to be the big brother, he had only one road open to him. It was time to grow up.

He set the half full bottle down and fished his phone out his pocket. He took a deep breath and dialed. "Bren? Hi, it's me." his heart pounded. "I...I was just wondering, if you haven't had the locks changed yet, would it be all right with you if I brought my dumb ass home and begged you to forgive me?"


	15. A Buck And A Quarter Quarterstaff

April, 6 2007

Sam had barely begun to scan the airport crowd for familiar faces when a shrill, "Uncle Sam!" pierced the noise of the busy terminal, drawing his attention easily to the sight of his nephew struggling to be released from Brenda's grasp. Smiling he dropped to one knee and allowed the charging boy to plow into him for a hug.

After a quick enthusiastic embrace, Johny wiggled out of his arms and began chanting, "up, up, up" jumping in place, arms stretched upwards.

Sam smiled slyly, "You want me to put you up?" he asked innocently, stalling as he watched Dean's approach out of the corner of his eye.

"Yeees! Up. Up. Up!" the boy answered, still jumping as Sam rose back to his feet.

"Why do you want me to put you up?" Sam asked when he knew his brother was in earshot.

"Because you're taller than daddy!" Johny proudly recited the memorized line, and Sam promptly scooped the boy easily onto his shoulders.

"Dean," he called, "grab my carry on, will you? I've got my hands full." he smirked impishly.

"OK Sam," Dean said as he passed, "that's round one to you. Hell of a way to do it though, turning a man's own son against him."

"Sam you don't have to do that." Brenda had caught up with the group. "Johny, don't pester Uncle Sam. He just got here. If you're too tired to walk, daddy can carry you."

"Nuh-uh," the boy latched onto Sam's shirt with both hands, "I like when Uncle Sam does it. He's taller than daddy. He's taller than a dinosaur!" he finished up with a loud childish roar.

"It's fine, Brenda, really, "Sam reassured her. "This is the best part of being home."

"You sure about that, little brother? All your buddies are gonna be kicking it in TJ this week."

Sam laughed, "Yeah, doing things they'll spend the rest of their lives hoping no one ever finds out about. I'll take this." He jostled his shouldered and was rewarded with a burst of delighted giggles. "So what are you playing this year, kiddo? Softball or football?"

"Piano." Dean said dryly.

"Oh man, dad must have loved that." Sam couldn't keep the grin from his face, so turned to start working his way through the crowd to try and hide it.

"Actually, he was surprisingly cool with it." Dean shouldered Sam's bag. "Said it was better than pushing buttons from backstage."

"Jerk." Sam snorted.

"Bi..."

"Dean!" Brenda cut him off, "not in front of Johny!"

XXXXX

Sam had declined Brenda's offer of the front seat in favor of allowing his nephew some one on one time with him. He remembered what it was like to be the one child amongst a group of grown-ups. As soon as the drive from the airport was over the adults would start "adulting" with one another and Johny would be offered some distraction, cookies and cartoons or the like, to keep him busy and out of the way.

Sam could sympathize, so he had climbed into the familiar backseat prepared to spend the trip hearing all about 2nd grade and piano lessons. "So Johny, I hear you're doing good in school. Looks like I'll need to save you a seat at Stanford, huh?" The boy's wordless, sulky shrug took him by surprise. "Problem?" he prompted.

"I don't wanna be called Johny anymore," the boy sulked. "It's for babies."

Sam laughed softly before catching himself. "I know what you mean." He leaned in and whispered loudly, "You know, your dad used to call me Sammy just to watch me get upset."

"What do you mean 'used to', Sammy?" Dean quipped from behind the wheel.

"Johny, no," Brenda had twisted around in her seat to face him, "We've talked about this. Grandpa is John. If we have two Johns it'll confuse everybody. You can be little John." If her exasperated tone was anything to judge by, Sam could tell that they had, in fact, talked about it, a lot.

"That's the same thing." Johny pouted. He knew his mother was a dead end on the topic, so he was playing the "sympathy from a visiting uncle" card for all it was worth.

"What?" Sam interjected, feigning shock. "Do you mean to tell me, that you've never heard of Little John?" Johny shook his head, forgetting for the moment to keep up the morose pretense, Sam's response having taken him by surprise. "Dean," Sam pretended to scold his brother, "Haven't you been teaching this boy anything important?"

"You're the book geek, Sammy." Dean snarked. "Didn't want to trespass."

Sam turned his attention back to his nephew. "OK, I want to listen to this carefully," he said seriously, "because it's very important." The version of Robin Hood that he launched into drew pretty heavily from Disney and "Men In Tights", and not so much from "A Gest of Robyn Hode" considering the age of his audience. He made sure to put special emphasis on how Robin would have been doomed if not for the back up of his strong and loyal right hand. His nephew listened to every word with rapt attention and wide eyes. The effort paid off. By the time they had arrived at John and Mary's to drop Sam off, much to his parent's relief, the boy was insisting upon being called Little John thereafter.

In the driveway, Brenda went up on her toes to plant a grateful kiss on Sam's cheek. Dean was content to let her handle the thanks. Sure, the kid had stepped up and pulled him out of parenting Hell, but he'd be damned to real Hell before he admitted it out loud.


	16. The More Things Change

**April 8, 2007**

A year with nothing between them but phone calls had seemed like a long time. Both brothers had felt the loss, so when Dean had suggested driving out to the middle of nowhere to split a six-pack Sam had readily agreed.

It was a clear night. The stars shone bright in the dark blanket of the sky with no artificial light around that would dampen them. The whole universe laid itself out on display for just the two of them and invited them to find their places within it. Perched on the hood of the car they let themselves get lost in the sight and their individual thoughts. There was so much to say, but in those first moments, to share the silence was easier.

"So, things are good? At home, I mean?" Sam was the first to disturb the comfort of the shared stillness.

"Uh yeah, pretty good." Dean didn't sound quite convincing. "I mean, Bren and me, we were never going to be the Cunninghams, but we're working it out. I'm home nights." He glanced away, "Most nights," he amended. "The ones I don't spend with Charlene."

Sam didn't bother to try and hide his disappointment. "Really, Dean? Are you kidding me?"

Dean's face broke into an impish grin, "Yeah, I am." he laughed. You're so easy, Sammy. I couldn't resist. Charlene is a trashed out '76 Charger I picked up at auction for pocket change. Been rebuilding her at the garage. Once I get her cherry, she's gonna sell for some serious folding money."

Sam didn't realize he was staring until snapped, "What!"

"Nothing," Sam chuckled, "It's just, wow, you're actually thinking about the future, like with a plan and everything."

"I am." Dean scratched at the label off his beer peeling the corner up. "I've been thinking, since I stumbled on Charlene, there's a lot of old classics out there, just need the right guy to help them get their groove back. Could be a real money maker." He looked up from toying with the loose corner of the label, "What do you think?"

"We are still talking about cars, right?" Sam took the opportunity to even the score.

"That's funny, Sam. You should drop out of law school and go on tour." They were finding their footing after the shaky start.

"I think it's great, Dean. You should go for it."

Dean nodded, "That's what Brenda said too. Hey, you know, I never did thank you for smacking some sense into me last year."

Sam gave him a playful shove, "Forget about it. That's my job, right? Looking after my dumb ass big brother." He dodged Dean's half hearted swat. "So things are good. You've got a plan for the future. You think you might propose again?"

Dean didn't answer right away. He scratched at the loose label for a bit. "I don't know." he finally said. "I'd be lying if I said I hadn't thought about it. I just don't know if it's such a good idea to go poking at something when it's working." He drained the last of his beer and hopped off the hood. "You want another one?"

Sam glanced at the half full bottle in his hand, "I'm good."

Dean dug into the car and returned with two bottles and reclaimed his seat. "Brought you one anyway. Whenever you're ready, lightweight." He set one bottle down on the hood near Sam. The other hissed as he cracked it. "Damn," he made a face after the first swallow. "It's getting warm. Should have got ice."

"Should have." Sam agreed.

"How about you, you doing good?"

"Yes," Sam assured him. "I mean, law school's a lot tougher than undergrad, but I'm handling it."

"I wasn't asking about your grades, Sam." Dean didn't bother trying to keep the irritation out of his voice. "Are you taking care of yourself?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "God, you're as bad as Mom. You know that?"

Dean thought about that for a second and gave a curt nod, "Worse if you wanna get right down to it. Now quit avoiding the question. You still having those weird dreams?"

"No," Sam lied without hesitation. He regretted having told his brother about the frequent bloody nightmares at all. Talking about them made them seem even more real, made it harder to pretend that they weren't happening, or didn't mean anything. He decided he was content to ignore them as much as he could. "No, you were right. Just my brain trying to tell my body when I was overdoing it." He took a long drink, hoping that would keep his expression from betraying him.

"See, I knew without me there you were going to drive yourself right into an early grave." Sam thought Dean was joking, but couldn't be entirely sure.

"Relax, Dean," he replied, overdoing the soothing tone in hoping he could derail the subject if he could push Dean's buttons a bit, "I've got a doctor onsite. Remember Brady?"

Dean thought for a minute, "Blonde, skinny, kinda stuffy, bigger nerd than you?"

"That's him. We're rooming together off campus. He's top of his class, pre-med, so you can stop worrying. I've got my own inhouse medical staff."

"Well that's great, Sammy." Dean let his voice go gooey. "I'm glad you finally found somebody." He put a hand on Sam's shoulder and leaned in. "Are you thinking about proposing?"

"Shut up, jerk." Sam shrugged Dean's hand away.

"Bitch." Dean countered on reflex. "Oh, sorry, am I still allowed to call you that? Brady won't get jealous?"

"Dean enough!" Sometimes Dean could be like a dog with a bone, didn't know when to let things drop. "Pretty much everybody else we knew has graduated and left. We're both getting too old for dorm life, so we split expenses on an apartment. That's it."

Based on Sam's reaction, something was clearly up. Dean put two and two together and arrived at entirely the wrong answer. "You know Sam, it wouldn't be any big deal to me if you were..."

"I'm not, so drop it!" Sam cut him off.

Sometimes Dean just needed a house to fall on him. "Touchy," he grumbled, "Still, it would explain why you haven't been out with anyone since Becky."

And there it was. Sam didn't respond. Instead, he gulped down the rest of his beer a grabbed the one Dean had brought.

"You know, I had a feeling about the two of you." Dean carried on, seemingly oblivious.

"Yeah, so did I." Sam muttered glumly, pitching the bottle cap off into the darkness. "Could we not talk about it?"

"Sure," Dean said, finally catching up with what had caused Sam to go all moody. They sat for a bit, watching the sky in silence. Dean knew that despite Sam's protests, he needed to talk, but he also knew that Sam would when he was ready, so he just waited it out, ready to be there whenever his brother decided the time was right. Girl trouble was familiar ground, and it was kind of comfortable to be back on the map.

"She came back to school this year, you know." Sam finally said, almost absently. "But she's different. What happened to Zach, it just broke her. She doesn't let herself feel anything anymore. It's like she's afraid too."

This was not shaping up into the fun filled night that Dean had envisioned. "That sucks on eleven, man. I really liked her. Liked Zach, to. He was a good guy. Is he still..."

"At the hospital?" Sam finished for him. "Yeah, checked himself in for an extended stay. I don't blame him. Getting arrested on a murder you didn't commit, that would send most people right over the edge, losing Emily on top of it..." He didn't bother to complete the thought. "You know, he was the one that found her, still tied up, bloody." Sam shuddered and shook his head, "Losing somebody you love like that, so suddenly, that violently, I can't even imagine what that would do to me."

"Here's to hoping that neither of us ever has to find out." he bumped bottles with Sam.

"Yeah," Sam agreed and they drank to the impromptu toast.

"Could have been worse though. Didn't you say his lawyer was talking about a plea bargain?" Dean figured Sam was better off brooding about Zach than Becky.

"That was the first one, from when Becky was in over her head trying to handle everything alone. Once their folks got back in country their dad hired a high powered legal pit bull. He got an independent investigator to do a whole slew of forensic tests. The case fell apart when the ropes didn't show any trace of Zach's DNA. Pretty much proved that he couldn't have been the one that tied her up."

"Guy got lucky."

"No, his lawyer was good." Sam corrected his brother. "That's what I want to do someday. People get caught up in things they can't control, in a system they don't understand. They need to be saved because they can't save themselves. I want to be the guy that can help."

Dean was glad to see Sam coming out of his funk, "Yeah well, I think you're gonna be great at it. You always did love to argue. Go get your Atticus Finch on."

Sam fixed him with a surprised stare.

"What?" Dean demanded, "I read."

"Brenda's still got a thing for black and white classics, doesn't she?" Sam asked, trying to pretend naivety.

"Shut up," Dean snapped, even though he happy to put the depressing crap behind them. Left to his own devices, Sam always seemed to dig himself into a dark place. Dean had always seen it as his role to drag him back out before he got lost in it. He abruptly changed the subject in an effort to head off a U-turn back into the darkness. "So I've been thinking about your birthday..."

"I thought we weren't going to poke at things that were working." Sam interrupted.

"Let me finish, smart guy. I was thinking about a family trip this time.''

"**You're,** going to get on a plane?" Sam asked, sounding like he didn't believe it.

"What? God, no, what gave you that idea?"

"Well, you can't be thinking about driving." Sam reasoned. "That's a two day drive pushing it. With Brenda making you keep it under light speed, and a kid that'll be bored to death five minutes after you're out of the driveway, you'd be lucky to make it in three."

"See? You love to argue. Johny, Little John, damn that's gonna be hard to get used to, he'd love it. You know that kid thinks the world of you." Dean wasn't going to let this go easily. After five years worth of screwing this up, he liked the idea of doing it right at least once.

"Dean, you can't expect a kid that age to keep himself entertained in the Impala's backseat while you drive half-way across the country. Besides, Brenda would never let you take him out of school for that long. You're talking about a week in travel time alone. Sam loved the idea, and hated to be a wet blanket, but he just didn't see how it was doable. "Now, if you were willing to fly..."

"Not happening." Dean's tone made it clear the point was not negotiable. Sulking, he made quick work of most of his second beer. He brightened as an idea struck him, "Ok forget your birthday. What about summer? Bren and the kid can fly out, and I'll hit the road a few days before. Johny, damn it, Little John doesn't have to make the drive and I don't have to fly or drive the speed limit. Everybody's happy."

Sam considered the plan. "My class load would be lighter in summer session. That could work. As long as Brenda's all right with it."

"Don't see why she wouldn't be."

'Yeah well, talk to her anyway. Assuming she's fine with whatever dumb thing you get in your head is what always leads to your ass getting kicked to the curb."

"Nah, she hasn't kicked my ass further than the couch for over a year." Sam gave his brother "that" look. "I'll talk to her, but I'm telling you, she'll love the idea."

"I hope so. You could finally see something besides the strip clubs and dive bars. In fact, there's a spot that overlooks the botanical gardens, perfect place for a proposal."

Dean gritted his teeth, "Sam," he warned.

"I could babysit."

"Sam, I swear to god..."

"Just think about it."

Dean turned, ready to explode, but before he did a thought hit him, "Mom put you up to this, didn't she?" Sam's guilty look was the only answer he got, and the only one he needed. "Ok," he conceded, "Tell her I'm thinking about it."

"Are you really thinking about it, " Sam prodded, "Or are you just trying to get Mom to drop it for a while?"

"Jeez, are you ever going to be a good lawyer. I said I'd think about it and I'll think about it. Now drop it, before Mom finds out about your boyfriend Brady."

"You wouldn't." Sam meant for it to sound more like a challenge and less like a plea than it came out.

"Try me," Dean replied tipping his bottle to his lips.


	17. All Hell Breaks Loose Anyway

**April 30, 2007**

His head hurt. His head hurt and he was on something hard. Slowly Sam peeled his eyes open and tried to leverage himself up. The world swam around him. He shook his head, trying to clear the cobwebs and achingly pulled himself to his feet. His muscles protested the movement after a night in the elements on the hard surface.

His surroundings were confusing. At first glance, he thought that he must be in a frontier style fun park, or maybe on a western movie set, neither of which made any sense. That couldn't be right though. The dilapidation around him was authentic, not the work of creative minds trying to provide a realistic experience.

Where ever he was, it was also a mystery just how he had gotten there. The last thing he remembered he had decided to take a study break, a quick walk down to the coffee shop to stretch his legs and clear his head. He could remember walking under the streetlamps in the mellow air of a California spring. Then it got fuzzy. He didn't think he'd arrived at his destination. If he had, he didn't remember it.

He passingly wondered if this was some lame birthday kidnapping prank. That would explain a few things. It was a fairly benign explanation compared to some of the other possibilities, but even so, he was still going to kill whoever was responsible.

"Hello?" he called. No answer disturbed the eerie quiet. "OK guys, you got me. Ha-ha, very funny."

No jeering faces appeared. No malicious yet friendly laughter broke the silence.

"Damn," Sam muttered. If this was a prank, someone had really gone all out. He fumbled at his pocket for his phone but found it empty. That's right, he recalled, he'd left it at the apartment. He'd just needed a short break from anything and everything and had opted to leave it behind.

Not seeing any other alternatives he started walking down the weather worn planks of the old time sidewalk. "Hello?" he called out again. He didn't really expect an answer at this point, but he wasn't sure what else to do.

"Is somebody there?"

Sam's heart jumped. "Yeah!" he yelled in response, heading towards the other voice with quick strides of his long legs. "Over here!" he almost collided with the other man who ducked out of an alley.

"Oh god, am I glad to see you, to see anybody!" He was dark haired, shorter than Sam like most people were, and clearly pretty freaked out. "What is going on here? Where are we? What is happening?" the poor guy was babbling. Sam had to wonder if he was aware of the meaning of the string of words he was spouting.

"I don't know." Sam answered all three questions at once, "but I'm beginning to think this isn't my buddies screwing around. I'm Sam."

"Andy," the shorter man supplied timidly, "Gallagher."

**May 2, 2007**

Dean hung up the phone, too stunned by the news to know how to react. He was pissed, a little scared, pissed that he was scared. Confusion crawled up out of the whirlpool of emotions and solidified into one chilling question. "How could the kid be missing?"

Any other early twenties, red blooded, American male you could believe had just followed a shapely set of hips and a couple of sixers of longnecks off on a lost weekend, but this was Sam. Sam didn't do that.

Dean would do that. Hell, Dean had done that, more than once. The last time, when he'd finally stumbled into the garage, still pretty hungover, John had responded with an ass chewing that still made him cringe to think about.

Sam, however, was reliable, responsible. Dean's mind chased itself around in circles trying to make sense of it.

"Screw this!" he exploded, storming off towards the bedroom. He was going out to California to find Sam's ass himself so that he could personally kick it for pulling this dumb stunt.

He flung open the closet door and grabbed his gym bag and a pair of jeans, resulting in a tug-o-war with the hanger. The hanger lost, ending up mangled and forgotten on the floor. He was cramming a handful of T-shirts into the bag when he heard a small voice behind him, "Dad?"

Dean froze, the chaos of emotion pushed off to the side. He knew what he was going to see if he turned around. He didn't want to turn around. What he really wanted was to rewind this whole damned morning, call Sam to say "happy birthday", and have him pick up, or at very least, for Brady, who had eventually answered to have some idea where Sam had gotten off to.

What he did not want was to be standing here, losing his cookies, without the guts to turn around and face, slowly he turned, THAT. Little John stood in the doorway, his kicked-puppy eyes making silent accusations. Dean felt his throat tighten, robbing him of his voice, but what was there that he could even say? Little John worried at the carpet with his toe, "You and Mom need some space again?"

That proved to be the limit of what Dean could take. He deflated as is he'd been stuck with a pin. He dropped heavily onto the bed, the bag hitting the floor. Still unable to make words come he beckoned his son forward with a "come here" hand wave. His head hung, he could not bring himself to face those eyes.

The boy obediently shuffled forward. As soon as he was within reach Dean hauled him onto his lap and cocooned him in a tight hug.

"No, buddy" his voice had returned, but it was a struggle to keep it from cracking. "I'm just heading out to see Uncle Sam at school. I'll be back in a couple of days." His thoughts berated him. The drive there alone would chew up a couple of days, and that's if he busted speed laws and drove when he should be sleeping. That was before however much time it took to find Sam where ever he'd gotten off to and bail him out, dry him out, ball him out, and whatever else may be needed.

"S'never just a couple days." Little John's voice, muffled by Dean's enshrouding arms seemed to have gotten even smaller.

Shame crawled up out of Deans gut, slithered cold over his chest, and finally emerged as a hot flush on his cheeks. Painfully he caught up with himself. He hadn't planned on explaining himself to Brenda. He hadn't called John to say why he wouldn't be into work, or for that matter, to even fill him in on the situation. Worst of all, he'd unthinkingly made a promise to his son, without a second's consideration that there was no realistic way that he could keep it.

"You know what? How about I put that off until I can plan it better?" He felt Little John nod against his chest and press closer to him. Dean felt torn in two, his son needing him to be here, his brother, god knew where, maybe needing him as well. He suddenly felt very small.


	18. Wayward Son

**May 2, 2007 (cont)**

John wasn't going to allow his concern to blossom into panic. Dean was already doing enough of that for the two of them, pacing around the confines of the garage's small office, fidgetting with this and that, while John finished his call. Dean listened impatiently as his father asked all the same questions he had and obviously got the same answers.

On some level, Dean had hoped, trusted that John would just somehow fix everything with his mere presence, the way he had so many times before in Dean's life. It was agitating him that all that was happening so far was an encore of the same conversation he'd already had himself a couple of hours before.

It was an effort for John to block out the distraction of his son's animated wanderings about the room as Brady related the same information for the second time that morning. He'd last seen Sam on Sunday, the 29th. He had seemed fine, and no he hadn't mentioned any particular plans for his birthday. No, he wasn't seeing anyone special, unless you counted the grandmotherly assistant at the law library or the barista at the off-campus internet java bar. If Sam had a second phone, he didn't know anything about it and had no idea why Sam would go out and leave this one behind. Yes Sir, if...when, WHEN Sam came home, he would have him call right away.

John thanked him and ended the call, prompting Dean to cease his agitated criss cross of the room and throw his father a questioning look. He didn't say anything, but his eyes silently begged John to say that he had learned something that Dean didn't already know. He just wanted to hear that Sam was safely on a California beach celebrating his birthday sandwiched between two cheerleaders, or two football players, or two seagulls. He didn't freaking care. He just wanted to know the kid was all right.

John did find the situation troubling, but he had been down this road before. This was, however, the first time he'd had to deal with one son gone walk about and a mother hen of an older brother that needed to be talked off the ledge at the same time. "Dean, try to keep in mind that Sam is grown man. I'll grant you, this isn't the smartest thing he's ever done, but he's at that age when young men don't always think things all the way through." He caught Dean's eye with a meaningful gaze. "I know one that still had some growing up to do at 24."

Somehow that didn't make Dean feel any better about the situation or himself. "Dad, I almost bolted out there to look for him. I'd be halfway to Colorado right now if Little John hadn't caught me." He didn't know if he was confessing or confiding the depth of his concern.

John came out from behind the desk to lay a reassuring hand on his Son's shoulder. "I don't think it's come to that yet." he said.

A pained expression invaded Dean's features. "This is on me. I should have been there to look out for him."

"Dean, nobody expects you to be Sam's babysitter for the rest of his life, especially Sam." Dean looked unconvinced and John tried a different tack. "Let's say you do spend the next three days driving to Palo Alto, then what?"

Dean opened his mouth to answer. It surprised him when nothing came out. That was a fair point. What could he do? He wasn't a detective or some kind of bounty hunter. He could grill Brady yet again, maybe ask around campus a little, then what? He had to admit, he had no real plan past the part where he jumped in his car and drove like the devil. His shoulders hunched, wordlessly signaling defeat.

"Well then, what do we do?" he asked, coming somewhere between a plea and a demand. "Cause I gotta be honest with you, Dad, right now I'm still itching to break the Kansas to Cali land speed record."

"You got to know most of Sam's friends. Start making phone calls. See if any of them knows anything." At very least, John reasoned, that would give Dean something to do, a distraction from the helpless worrying. Right now the younger man was all nervous energy, barely held in check and threatening to break loose in some ill advised direction like a spooked horse at any moment.

Skeptically scrolling through his menu Dean protested, "Everybody I knew is gone now other than Brady."

"Call them anyway," John instructed firmly. "Best to know for sure." And best for you to have something to focus on, he added silently. "I'll take the area hospitals and police."

Dean's eyes flicked back up from his phone, startled and fearful. "Best to be sure," John repeated. Dean nodded but clearly wasn't very happy about it.

More than an hour inched by as the pair worked their way through every number they could think of. Dean, distracted by trying to listen in on John's calls while he made his own, didn't know whether to feel relief or disappointment every time no John Doe matching Sam's description has stumbled into a particular emergency room over the past couple of days. The law enforcement calls, by contrast, were definitely disppointing since a mid-twenties college student, missing a couple of days, the week of his birthday raised about as much concern as loud noises on the Fourth of July.

John finished up with contacting campus security and filling them in. They assured him that they would alert their officers and advised him not to worry. These kids did this all the time.

"These kids" Dean thought bitterly at hearing that. "These kids" maybe, but not Sam. He wanted to scream, to vent the frustration. This was Sam. Sam did not do this, not "all the time", not ever. Why didn't anybody understand that? It all had to go somewhere so he banged his fist down onto the desk. Papers and pens jumped on the surface from the impact.

"Feel better?" John asked.

"Not even a little," Dean grumbled, shaking the pain out of his hand.

"Dean, try to relax. We know Sam's not in any local hospital or drunk tank. That's good news. If he shows up at one, they all have our contact information. The most likely thing right now is, he's doing some excessive celebrating. Brady will have him call when he gets in, and when he does, you can feel free to tear him a new one. It'll be good practice for Little John because this never ends. It just passes to the next in line."

Dean wasn't having it. "I don't get it, Dad. How can you be so calm?"

"Not my first time at this rodeo, Son."

"No, I guess not." Dean silently resolved that it would never happen because of him again. Until now, he had never really fully considered the fallout from his own days-long party excursions. "Oh man," he moaned as another thought pushed into his mind, "Mom is going to freak."

"No, she won't." John countered as he headed towards the door back to the work floor.

"Dad, have you met Mom? What do you plan on telling her?"

"The same thing I always told her when it was you, nothing until I know something for sure. There's no reason for her to have to worry over nothing." He paused at the door, waiting for Dean to follow. "All we can do now is wait, and we've left Guenther covering the floor all alone for long enough. We're already way behind for the day, so throw yourself into it. It'll keep your mind off Sam until he calls."

John figured that it was probably for the best that he couldn't make out whatever it was that Dean mumbled as he passed by on his way out of the office. He followed Dean out, thinking that he had a few choice things to say to Sam when he called.


	19. Going Through The Unimaginable

**July 16, 2007**

Tears ran unashamedly down Dean's cheeks. This was wrong. This so wrong it was a metaphor for what wrong meant. Sam, his brother, his little brother, was in that box. They were going to lower it into that hole in the ground, and then it was all going to be over, forever. Was he just supposed to walk away? Just go on with his life without the shared laughter over inside jokes and arguments over the boundaries of the pecking order? Was he just supposed to go without Sam?

"You should have been there. You should have been there. You should have been there." played on a loop in his mind. Anger boiled up inside of him, at himself, at Sam, at the stupid freakin' universe that would let a kid like Sam, so young, so much potential, so much life left to live and so much to live it for, die in the first place.

He wanted to explode. He wanted to scream, and yell, and hit things. He wanted to jump in his car and drive 95 miles an hour to nowhere and never stop. He wanted to take the hurt inside of him, tear it out and spread it around.

But he couldn't. Mary was standing stiffly beside him, bookended bewteen himself and John, her own silent tears making long, ladylike paths down her own cheeks in contrast to his own face drenching deluge. Dean had to hold it together for her, so he let all the rage at his loss come out with the tears.

Yeah world, tough guy Dean Winchester was standing there blubbering like a baby while some man in black recited a bunch of church words over his baby brother's grave, and he didn't care who saw it.

Well, that wasn't quite true. He was glad that Little John wasn't there. He and Brenda had discussed their son attending the funeral and had decided it would be too much at his age. They would bring him to visit Sam's grave another day, when he could say his own quiet good-byes without the spectacle.

That was Dean's one small comfort. With Little John there he would have felt the need to "man up", stay strong in front of his son. With the boy safely at home with his mother Dean was free to let himself mourn however he needed. He took full advantage of the opportunity.

XXXXX

Mary's tears were not light, but they were gentle, silent. Neat twin rivers left mascara darkened trails on her cheeks, painting her face into that of a tragic harlequin.

This was her fault, she knew. Her deal, her stupid mistake made because she had been too weak to do the right thing, too overwhelmed in her fresh grief to think the consequences through before agreeing to deal with a demon.

The guilt gnawed at her and she had found herself unable to meet the eyes of her husband and surviving son. She reached over to give dean's hand a reassuring squeeze which he gratefully returned.

Dean, she thought, he should have been Sam. Her first son logically should have been named for her father, but the first time she had seen those eyes she knew that she saw her mother in the newborn boy. Seeing the tough shell covering a sensitive caring soul that he had grown into she knew she had made the right choice.

Sam had been meant to be Sam, impatient, moody, so like the grandfather he had never been able to know.

The memories of her parents brought forth fresh tears. She'd been so eager to leave them, to run off away from everything she ever knew, everything her family was, to pretend that she could be normal. Looking back now, it was clear that in her youthful folly she had made the mistakes of thinking that normal had meant perfect and that a past left behind would stay left behind.

Now, cut open and bleeding out from the fresh loss, she longed for her parents, especially Samual. She wanted his guidance, his wisdom. She wanted him by her side for what came next, what had to be. She knew, it had taken standing here, looking down at the grave of her own deceased son to do it, but she knew, she couldn't run anymore. She had to clean up the mess she'd made once and for all. She had to do whatever it took to protect what little was left of her family.

XXXXX

John's expression probably would have betrayed his feelings to anyone who looked closely enough, but everyone present was enmeshed enough in their own grief and mourning that the stoic mask he forced on his features served well enough. The loss of his son cut deep into him, but he forced himself to contain it. His family needed him to be strong for them, to be the man.

He was worried about Mary. Her reaction to the news that Sam's body had been found in South Dakota along with several others had not been the hysterical breakdown he would have expected. Instead, she was quiet, seemingly numb. She had retreated into herself and into the bedroom. Occasionally he could hear emotional conversation, with he didn't know who, through the door. She refused to talk to him about it. She barely looked at him, or at Dean.

Dean, John had noticed, was at least letting himself feel. He'd watched as his son had balanced precariously on the razor's edge of impending explosion since the news had come, constantly ready to charge off in some random direction and let the pain gush out of him in the form of damage done to whatever happened to be in his way. He knew his grandson and defacto daughter-in-law had been on eggshells around him.

He understood the feeling because in burned just as hot in his own gut. This hadn't just happened. It wasn't like an illness or accident. That could at least have been understood as something that, while tragic, did happen sometimes. This was different. Sam was gone because some sick, serial killer bastard had taken him from them. His fist clenched at his side thinking about what he wanted to do about that.

With a deep breath he forced himself to calm down. Thinking about it was pointless. He couldn't do anything more than what the police were already doing. His family needed him to stay strong, to hold it together so that they could heal, not for him to give in to some rage fueled revenge obsession that would only help destroy them.

Sam was gone. Nothing was ever going to change that. He would find a way to accept it and to help Mary and Dean accept it. Tears threatened to spill from his reddened eyes, but he blinked them back. He would cry them later, when Dean and Mary weren't around to see.


	20. Careful What You Wish For

**July, 17, 2007**

The door to Sam's room stood closed. Mary preferred it that way. Closed it created the illusion that, behind it, Sam sat brooding, sequestered inside the way that he had for much of his early teens. It filtered the reality and allowed her to pretend. She was used to that. Most of the perfect fantasy that she had crafted for herself, most of her entire adult life, had been pretend, a game of playing house, just a facade built to obscure a darker reality that she had chosen to ignore.

It had been a game for high stakes, higher than she could have known, or even understood on May 2nd of '73, the day she had cast her first lot. She had still been more child than adult, her eyes on a future she craved, the love of her life, the physical embodiment of those dreams, dead in her arms. At that moment, all she could see was the pain, the loss. All she had felt was the fear of a life she didn't want lived all alone.

So she had gambled, her hopes against her fears in the balance, and at first it had felt like a win. John had revived in her arms, new life breathing into the possible future just as it did into his body. The path before them was clear, the obstacle of her father's objections having been neatly removed.

Of course, she hadn't allowed herself to see it that way. She'd mourned her parents, and her grief had been real. The secret relief that an inevitable complication in her plans had been conveniently disposed of was buried so deeply in her denial that she never showed it to even herself.

To leave the hunter's life behind required more than simply not hunting. It meant severing ties to friends and colleagues, in Mary's case, family. While she had, on that night, been filled with the unstoppable force of a young adult sure of her choice and determined to see it through come what may, the reality was, Samuel Campbell would never have allowed his only child to simply disappear out of his life. She herself would never have been able to maintain the determination over the long haul.

She had ached over the years, missing her parents in those pinnacle family moments. Births and holidays, anniversaries and graduations, every one of them was marred by the fact that Samuel and Deana had been conspicuous in their absence. They were dead, and in a way, that had made it easier. There had been no nagging voice telling her to swallow her pride and pick up a phone, no temptation to risk the fragile straw structure of her new life by striking the match of her past too near it. That door had been closed, not by her, but for her.

The game, however, had not ended that night. The fateful night that her future had resurrected had only been the first round. Inevitably, the sun had risen, bringing with it a new day, and new developments into a series of events over which she found herself with decreasing amounts of control.

In the light of day she'd found herself confronted with the reality of her parent's deaths, not the abstract pain of the loss and the slow progression of realizations of all the little things that would be different from then on, but the harsh reality that death comes with a to-do list.

Any young woman, suddenly alone in a world that had been unceremoniously knocked sideways, would have felt overwhelmed. For her, it had been two-fold. There had been not just the facade to maintain for the civilians, but the hunter's traditions to observe as well. It was more than she could do alone. She'd called her uncle, and of course he had come, just as she had known he would.

Together they'd watched as the flames of the pyres had consumed the bodies of Samuel and Deana Campbell. Two days later, Robert had looked on as Mary cried in John's arms at a funeral for two empty coffins. It was as close as she had ever come to allowing the two halves of her life to touch one another.

The choice of if and how to allow her parents into her life with John had been made for her. Her extended family, that had been another matter. If that tie were be severed, she would have to be the one to do it. When she had instinctively turned to Uncle Robert for help she hadn't really taken into account just how messy that was going to make things.

She'd made the call, and in so doing, had wagered again, her past against her future. She'd bet on her past, on her family, and again, it had felt like a win. Robert had come, been there for her in all the ways that a loving uncle should have been. The unpleasant chore of tying up all her parent's loose ends completed she then faced the new chore of informing the man who had dropped everything and come to help her of her intentions to leave hunting, and everything to do with it, behind her.

He'd listened, didn't try to dissuade her or argue with her. When he'd walked away it had been without a good-bye. In one of the first of what was going to become a long list of self-deceptions, she'd allowed herself to believe that no good-bye meant the relationship wasn't exactly ended. They just weren't going to see one another again. That wasn't the same thing at all, right? The question became one more thing to never think about, one more match to never strike too near the straw. It was one more door that would stay closed so that she wouldn't have to actually see what lay beyond it, no different really than the one before her now.

Hesitantly she reached out and let her palm rest against the hard surface. Eyes closed, head hanging, chest aching she tried to let the comfort of the fantasy quell the pain of the reality. As long as she didn't open that door, Sam, like Shrodinger's cat was fine. He was forever twelve years old, just inside, too immersed in Moby Dick or Windows 95 to be bothered with the outside world.

If only it worked. It had for years, so many rationalizations designed to train her perceptions to see the world she wished to see. They hadn't been lies exactly, more like the tooth fairy, fanciful alternatives to be accepted because they were more pleasant, and therefore, preferable to the truth. Now however, the stakes had gotten too high, much higher than she ever could have imagined as a heartbroken 19 year old forced into an unfair paradox of a choice.

Blinded as she had been by her youth, ten years had seemed like a long time, too long a time to ever actually pass. Brand new pain, harsh in its freshness had been so much more tangible, seemed so much more real than the abstract idea of a bill that felt like it would never actually come due.

The time had passed however, and as happens, with age and maturity, she had eventually become aware of its passage.

It had been her first pregnancy, heralding the beginning of a new phase of her life, that had churned that night up out of her buried memories along with the awareness that what had seemed like an eternity at the time was, in fact, half gone in the blink of an eye. She couldn't avoid that May 2nd of 1983 would eventually arrive, bringing her bill due. What, she wondered, might that mean, not just for her and John, but now, for their child? The result had been alternating foul moods and crying jags, which she'd blamed on pregnancy hormones.

Eventually, she'd reasoned out that she really hadn't agreed to anything that terrible, just permission to enter the house. It shouldn't be difficult at all the ensure that the house was empty on that day. When the time came, she would simply arrange for some sort of family trip and they would all be safely away when whatever was going to happen happened. It would be over, and she need never think about it again. Satisfied with her plan, she'd been able to enjoy the rest of her pregnancy, much to the dismay of her doctor who's remarked that he'd never seen a patient's mood actually improve in the third trimester.

Dean's birth had brought the joy of new motherhood and a lot of work, which coupled with the knowledge that she had a simple and effective plan of action, had proven sufficient to drive thoughts of the sword hanging over her back into the recesses of her mind where she kept everything that she never let herself think about.

Late autumn of '82, that was when it all fell apart. She was pregnant again, her second child due to arrive the second half of April. Hearing the news she had paled so sharply and suddenly that the doctor had insisted on retaking her vitals and testing for anemia.

She'd largely ignored the whole process, her mind too busy working over the fact that an extended outing and a brand new baby were not compatible concepts.

What followed was easily the most difficult time in her and John's marriage. The calendar running down on the fated day, her struggle to produce a way to deal with it kept her constantly on the edge of a temper, which only grew worse as the remaining months dwindled into weeks, and then days. She had to find a way to make it work, no two ways around it.

Sam, as it turned out, had no intention of making it easy. He missed his due date, and then stubbornly defied repeated "any day now" predictions until Mary had to begin to wonder if he was ever going to come out at all. The final week of April sped by, and a cold fear gripped her as she realized that her baby could actually be born on the dreaded day.

She couldn't even begin to speculate what that might mean. What predestined damnation might she have visited upon her child when she had been little more than a child herself? It had felt like a win...at the time. Now, ten years gone, seemingly so quickly, she finally understood the weight of her choice, the stakes of her wager.

The pains had woken her just prior to midnight on the 1st. Her worst fears were being realized. The birth had been terrible, the physical pain paling in comparison to her anxieties. Would the baby survive? Be disfigured? Something else too horrible to contemplate? It was the closest thing to Hell that she could imagine.

The first moment she saw Sam, his tiny faced scrunched up, howling at the world with a set of obviously healthy lungs, had been the happiest of her life. He was alive. Everything was in the right place. There were no horns, no tail, no odd ominous birthmark.

More than this, Mary had realized as she beamed at her brand new son in her arms, he had saved them. It was May 2nd and the house was empty, she and John here at the hospital, and Dean safely tucked away with a neighbor. All she had to do was was convince John not to return home until after midnight and it would all be over, for once and for all.

Except that it hadn't been. Any hunter worth their salt had heard of Cold Oak, knew its history and legends. As soon as she had heard that Sam's body had been found there she had known that something unearthly had been involved. No, not just something. She knew what it was. This was her final bill coming due. This was the big pot that she had lost by pushing her luck too far. It had never been her past against her future, her hopes against her fears. It had been John's life against Sam's.

"I'm so sorry." she whispered, her cheek pressed against the door, the door that hid that the room beyond was empty, and would remain so thereafter. She allowed herself a few tears before composing herself and pulling away to continue her trek down the hall.

She had packing to do. Uncle Robert was expecting her to call with an ETA. She still hadn't figured out how to explain what she planned to do to John. You don't get to hurt, she told herself sternly, not yet. You started this, you have to end it before anybody else you love has to pay the price for your mistake. Get the job finished. After that, then you get to mourn.


	21. Unfinished Business

**July 17, 2007 (cont)**

Trying to pack turned out to be pretty pointless. The sensible dresses and casual slacks combos of a middle aged housewife didn't offer much that would prove very functional for what lay ahead. Mary abandoned the effort, concluding it made more sense to outfit as she went along, and moved on to placing her call.

She listened to the rhythmic ring of the phone as she pondered that it was all sort of a sad metaphor, nothing left of a hunter's trappings in her life, and not much hunter left in her.

"Mary?" the voice that cut off the ring was that of a man too young to be Robert, "It's Jacob."

"Jacob," she tried to make it sound as if the surprise had been a pleasant one. "I haven't seen you since..."

"We don't have to go down memory lane." the voice interrupted. "No need to pretend this is anything but what it is."

Honesty felt better. Mary really hadn't felt up to playing the role. Returning to the hunt wasn't something she relished. It was just what had to be done. There had been a time that she and her cousin had been close, playing together like any children might do, but also, training together as the fledgling hunters they were. That time was clearly past in Jacob's eyes. "In that case, I was calling for your father. Why are you answering his phone?"

"He's on another line taking a sitrep. Something's brewing in Pasadena."

"Tell me." she said, old instincts kicked in slipping her neatly into hunter mode.

"You're still bound and determined to go through with this, aren't you?" Jacob questioned in lew of answering. "I have to ask, do you know just how crazy you are? You've got to be beyond rusty. By now, there's so much dust on you you're going to end up with getting someone killed."

"I've already discussed all this with your father, Jacob. I know I can't go right back into the field, and I don't plan to, but I have to do something, whatever I can do." She realized that she sounded as if she were explaining to a child and changed up her tone to one that implied there was nothing to discuss. "I have to see this through to the end."

The silence from the other end of the line held more disdain than any words could have.

She pressed on, "What would you do if it had been your son?"

"That wouldn't have happened," he snapped back, "because **my son** was raised right."

Mary cut off her response before the angry sputters developed into actual words. There was bad blood between herself and the rest of the family after her betrayal of them and their mission. She wasn't going to be welcomed back with open arms. It was only due to the sway Robert held as a respected family patriarch that she had been welcomed back at all. Grudging acceptance, enough for working relationships was the best she was likely to get. It wouldn't do to stir the pot, so she pushed her anger down, allowed him the barb.

"Tell me about Pasadena." she said, her emotions poorly restrained behind a forced calm.

A meaningful pause preceded Jacob's answer as he considered whether or not to pursue the fued. "Demon signs, a lot of them," he eventually supplied, the hunter winning out over the wounded relative. "Near as we can figure, the reservoir's leaking. Dad's got a team out there looking into it."

That gave her cause for thought. The hellgate at Devil's Gate Reservoir had stood cracked slightly open since the 50s, when a pair of wannabe occultists, who knew just enough to be dangerous, had tampered with it. Odd occurences weren't unheard of in the area, but nothing of any great magnitude. "Do you think there could be a connection?" she asked, the argument forgotten in the face of what could be a promising lead.

"Hard to say." he answered. "We haven't been able to get near Cold Oak to find anything out. It's swarmed."

"Demons?"

"Forensics teams."

That didn't make any sense. "Still?" her voice was tinged with surprise. "It's been over a week. What could they be looking for after that long?"

"The rest of the bodies," he told her. "There's body drops all over the woods outside of town, most buried, some not. They've got teams out there with ground penetrating sonar trying to find them all. "

"H-how many?" She had forgotten just how ugly this job could get, the clinical detachment that a hunter had to have in order to stay sane.

"So far, in the dozens, and no telling how many more. Whatever this is, Mary, it's a lot bigger than just your boy." His attempt to discourage her backfired spectacularly.

"I can leave first thing in the morning and be there before dark." she said.

"Are you listening to me, Mary?" he argued, growing frustrated. "There's no point in you coming. Dad and I haven't even been able to get close, just a little recon around the perimeter. This is all over the civilian radar, and they've got everything locked down. The FBI's got people out there from missing persons going through everything with a fine toothed comb. This isn't flashing a fake badge at some local rube. It's the big leagues. We'll just have to wait until they finish and clear out. By then, there won't be anything left to find. There's nothing we can do, and there's definitely nothing you can do. Just stay with your family and out of the way...please."

"They'll let me in."

"Mary," he began but that was as far as he got.

"I'm the grieving mother of one of the victims, Jacob." she cut him off sharply. "They'll let me in."

He was mildly impressed in spite of himself. "You never did outgrow that stubborn streak of yours, did you? Maybe there's a little hunter left in you after all."

"A little," she agreed, "enough I hope. Tell your dad I'll see you both tomorrow." She ended the call before he could protest any further.

The suitcase still lay open and empty on the bed where she had left it. Her rejected middle aged housewife wardrobe had just become the perfect camouflage for the job at hand. Her mind awash with new information she went back to packing.

**July 18, 2007**

John moved quickly to place himself between his wife and the door. "Mary, just stop." he took her by the shoulders , blocking her way. "Talk to me for a minute, what do you mean you're leaving?"

"I'm not leaving, John. I have to go away, just for a little while." This really shouldn't have been left until the last minute, but she hadn't been able to decide what to tell John. The truth was out of the question, and he was not a man that settled for half answers. Reluctant to have the conversation at all she'd ended up procrastinating until the moment she on her way out the door suitcase in hand.

"It's a family thing." she continued lamely. "It's my Uncle Robert, he needs my help. You remember Robert, don't you?"

"I remember that you haven't heard a word from him since your parent's funeral." John was incensed. "Years, Mary, decades, and not one visit, a phone, a damn Christmas card, nothing, and now suddenly he needs some favor and you're ready to jump."

"John, please try to understand." she pleaded, but she knew she was asking the impossible. How could he understand? Even if she could have told him the truth, there had never been any real hope of this going well.

"Understand?" John challenged mockingly. "He cuts you off completely, and now I'm supposed to understand? After I watched him miss our wedding, holidays, even when the boys..." he choked on the emotion. "when the boys were born." he forced himself to finish, his voice ragged with a mix of pain and anger. "Does he know we just buried our son?" he demanded.

"He knows." her response was barely audible. Oh how much simpler this would be if she could explain that Robert was the one helping her, that he was doing the only thing he ever could for Sam, the only thing she had ever allowed him.

"I won't allow it." John declared straightening to his full height, planting himself before the door shoulders squared and eyes determined.

Mary met his gaze her face fierce with maternal instinct, "And just how do you plan to stop me?" As much as she loved John, nothing was going to keep her from avenging her son.

They stared each other down as the time seemed to pass much more slowly than it actually did. John blinked first. "How long?" he asked, defeated.

"Not long," Mary tried to reassure him, "I just have to finish something I should have taken care of a long time ago. I'll explain everything when I get back, I promise." Surely she'd be able to construct some convincing story by that time.

"All right." he conceded, stepping aside as he accepted her one armed hug. "You call as soon as you get there."

"Of course." she answered and reached for the door. "John," she said over her shoulder on the way out, "I love you."

"I love you, too." his back was turned. He wasn't willing to watch as she walked away.


	22. Graveyard Shift

**September 3, 2007**

The cemetery felt different than it had crowded with people there to pay their last respects. It was quiet in a pervasive way. Dean had never realized that you could feel the quiet, but he felt it now. It was as if the living world understood that this was not its place, that it was just a visitor here in the realm of the dead and was, therefore, making an effort to be as unobtrusive as possible.

He stood alone, looking down at Sam's marker, hands buried in his pockets. He'd avoided coming back here before now. Something about the idea just set wrong with him. Even if there was an after-life, Sam certainly wouldn't spend it hovering around this place. There was nothing out here but a chiseled hunk of rock and six feet of dirt covering what used to be his little brother.

"Hey Sammy," he began uncertainly, feeling silly for standing out in the open basically talking to himself. "I bet if you ever pictured this you figured it'd be the other way around. I mean, if either of us was going to die young, let's be real, the odds were on me."

Whether imagination or memory Dean could almost hear Sam's familiar heartfelt chuckle, the one that marked the all too rare occasions when the kid would relax and enjoy himself.

"So, I guess there's no point in asking how you're doing." he fumbled on. What was he even doing here? He had no idea what he was supposed to say and felt like an idiot.

He stood unspeaking for a time, rejoining the silence as it moved back in to fill the space his words had created. Every fiber urged him to end this charade and walk away, back to the living world, the real world, and the long list of very real demands on his time and attention. Somehow, the switch that would have made him act on those urges didn't get flipped and he was left stranded on the very spot he least wanted to be in the world.

"Man, things are messed up here." he heard himself blurt out. Saying it out loud brought an unexpected rush of relief.

Things **were** messed up, and Dean needed his brother, which he couldn't deny, was what had driven him to be standing here now. Even if all that was here was a marker and a memory, it was all Dean had so he would take it.

Suddenly everything was just pouring out of him, naturally, without thought or effort. "So, I don't know if you know, Mom took off right after we buri..., you know, right after the funeral. Don't panic, she didn't leave Dad or nothing. She went to visit family. I guess she felt like she needed to get away from everything."

He blinked against welling tears, "Man kid, I don't mind saying, you left some kind of hole when you left." Silly or not, Dean was starting to feel more comfortable. Maybe there was something to this visiting the dead stuff after all.

"She calls every few days." he went on. "At least she did at first. Dad never was cool with her going. Guess she got tired of fighting about it all the time, cause it's more like once a week now."

His pause was almost instinctive. That was the point where Sam would have had something to say, some babble about human psychology or marital dynamics.

"It sucks too." Dean continued, slowly coming to terms with carrying both sides of the conversation. "Like, you could tell, when he came into work, right away it was obvious if he'd heard from her. He'd be happy. Well, not happy. Guess none of us has really been happy since you, you know, had to leave. But he'd be better. That damned stubborn streak of his, pushing her, he's just pushing her away, cause who wants to call just to have a fight? Trust me, I know. That's why I hardly ever called Bren from California."

"She misses you too, by the way, and Little John." he rushed to confirm while a small part of his mind wondered why he felt the need to state the obvious to a patch of grass. "Sorry I haven't brought them out to see you. It's just, I don't think the kid is old enough to really get what death is. He'll probably have a whole lot of questions that I got no idea how to answer. You'd have known just what to say to him, some psycho-babble out of a fancy college book. I'm having a tough enough time with 'where's grandma?'"

"I mean, how the hell do I know?" momentum was starting to drive him. Emotion bled into his voice as the words tumbled out on there own and he just went with it.

"We've got no idea where she's at, just 'at Uncle Robert's'. Well, where the hell's that? Dad thinks somewhere in Illinois, but that's all we know."

"Did she ever even mention an Uncle Robert to you? No of course not, I only knew about him because I overheard something when I was just a kid. I always figured he was that uncle nobody ever talks about because he's bad news. The way Mom went off as soon as he called, especially now, considering, you know, your thing, man I just don't know what to think anymore."

"If Dad would just stop badgering her...I mean, I get why he's pissed. She said she wouldn't be gone that long, and it's already been like six weeks. I don't understand why she won't just be straight with him, tell him another week, or two, or six months, but every time it's 'just a little longer'. You know how Dad is, likes to be in the loop and have all his ducks lined up. It's eating him up not knowing what's going on. The whole thing just sucks in spades."

The agitated monologue came to an abrupt end. Dean felt drained, physically and emotionally. It wasn't his nature to be this verbal, and certain not this emotional.

"Sam, Dad's not taking it good." the words were soft. Dean struggled to even drag them out of himself. It had been hard enough to watch as cracks began to form on the monolith that had been John Winchester. To actually talk about it, to acknowledge it, went against his grain hard.

"I'm worried about how much he's been drinking. Yeah, yeah, I know," he interrupted the comment that he knew Sam would have made. "I've been throwing 'em back pretty good myself, so who am I to talk? But if I'm saying it, that's gotta tell you how bad it is."

"He missed work today. **Dad** missed work. He gave me some flap about not feeling well. I may not know much, but I know a hangover when I see one."

Now Dean felt in too deep. He'd wandered too far away from his comfort zone and scrambled back towards it like a mouse caught out in the open darting for its hole. "God, listen to me. I sound like a chick, come all the way out to see you and end up spewing all this support group crap on you. Like you need that."

He shuffled uncomfortably, unsure as to how to proceed from there. "Hey, remember when we were kids and I took you out to Stull for the first time?" He wasn't sure where that had come from. He was just talking about anything that wasn't the bad soap opera that his family had become. "Man, Mom was pissed, remember? Good thing she never heard the whole story or we'd still be grounded. Can't figure how she never found out the way you were running your mouth about it. Guess most of your friends didn't repeat it cause they didn't really believe it."

"He didn't fight the soft tears that splashed over his lashes. "I wish this was like that, that I could just carry you out of here to the car, and you'd wake up so I could bawl you out for pulling such a stupid stunt and scaring me half to death."

"Of course, you turned out to be such a gigantor that if I tried that now I'd bust something." The emotions felt and processed, in true Dean Winchester fashion, he was hiding them behind a joke so that he could ignore them.

"I'm gonna get out of here now. I'll bring the family out real soon. I promise." He'd come full circle, looping right back around to the same uncertain discomfort that he'd felt at the start. His steps were slow as he walked away. It didn't feel right to hurry to leave.

Several steps in he stopped decisively and turn back to face Sam's grave. "Hey bro, in case I didn't say it enough when we were growing up, I love you, man. Nothing's ever going to change that, not you dying, not me dying, so you save me a seat. When I get there, we're gonna celebrate, and it's going to be epic."

Now it felt all right to leave. As the sound of living footsteps faded into the distance the silence settled back over the grave of Sam Winchester and took it back into its embrace.


	23. Changing Of The Colors

**November 14, 2007**

People generally don't spare much thought on how fragile the structure of a life can be, how easily it can be laid to waste. One domino falls and before surprise can be stirred into response the chain reaction has carried the destruction further than ever seemed possible at the beginning.

Dean didn't tend to think in quite so poetic of terms. His take was that currently, things sucked on ice.

It was going to be a late night at the garage. They'd been a man down, John not having shown up, something that was happening frequently enough now that it could rightly be called a habit. There'd been no answer when Dean had tried to call, which meant he was going to have to swing by the house to check on him when he was finally able to finish up for the night. That, in turn, was going to mean another tense non-fight with Brenda.

She was trying to be understanding, but Dean knew he was pushing the boundaries of her tolerance. He hadn't been the easiest person to live with lately, his daily ration of patience usually exhausted well before he'd made it home. He was, frankly, not sure why she hadn't shown him and his hair trigger the door yet.

It would have been easier on him if she would just blow up at him. He'd feel less guilty. Instead, she persevered in the patient understanding of a loved one going through a tough time. It grew a little less genuine every time he tested it, but at least she was still making an effort, and that had to count for something.

He pulled himself out from under the hood of the Buick he'd just finished up with and spared a longing glance across the garage to where Charlene sat gutted, her innards scattered around her where they had lain untouched for weeks, no, more like months now.

There'd been a time when he looked at her, he'd seen her sleek and clean, looking and running like the showpiece that he was sure lurked under the rust and corrosion. Now, all he saw was a corpse, guts ripped out and ravaged by the elements.

Cars were easier. A car you could rip apart, replace whatever couldn't be fixed, put everything back in its proper place, and it would roar back to life as if there had never been a problem to begin with. The answers were simple. All the pieces fit where they went and did their assigned job. If something misfired or froze up, you rebuilt it, or got a new one, problem solved.

It didn't work that way when a life broke down. Dean wished fervently that he had some idea where to even start, but all he could do was keep putting one foot in front of the other, keep moving forward in hopes of getting out in front of the next inevitable crisis.

He was reasonably certain that it wasn't a question of if, but when, the next bombshell would drop. Nothing, not one god damned thing, had gotten better since the gut punch he'd taken months ago when Sam had first disappeared.

So many of the following nights had ended in alcohol induced sleep, an effort to drink away the anxiety. The days had passed slowly, each one diminishing a little more the chances that any news that came would be good. Then, the worst imaginable had happened. Sam was gone, and Dean had been left with a life damaged in a way that went beyond the potential for repair.

With a barely perceptible sigh, he tore his eyes away from the hulk that had so recently held all his future dreams. All he had left now was the struggle to keep the crumbling pieces of his present held together as best he could. He turned his back to Charlene's empty frame and went to retrieve the next work order.

**XXXXX**

Despite Dean's insistence that it was on him to take up his father's slack, Guenther refused to leave until they had caught up. Dean hadn't argued the point as vigoroulsy as he might have. Guenther wasn't just a business partner, but John's best friend for as long as Dean could remember. He was almost as concerned about John as Dean was himself, and the sooner they were finished, the sooner Dean could ensure that nothing worse than a binge had caused John's latest no show.

Dean, of all people, knew John's usual reaction to that sort of behavior, having been on the receiving end of it more times than he cared to admit to. As he wiped the bulk of the grease from his hands, he wondered what John would have had to say to himself, which inspired his tired brain to conjure an image of twin Johns, one lecturing the other. The idea was comical enough to actually bring a short lived smile to Dean's lips.

Grateful that Guenther had offered to lock up so that he could be on his way that much sooner, Dean slipped wearily into the Impala's driver's seat. A turn of the key brought her instantly rumbling to life, and he gave the dash an affectionate pat. "That's my girl," he praised her. "You're the only thing in my life that's working, you know that?"

**XXXXX**

"Dad?" Dean called out as he let himself into the house. He hadn't knocked. That had been a pointless effort enough times that he didn't bother with it anymore.

By now, he expected the sight that confronted him, but that didn't make it hurt any less. He'd had a lifetime of looking up to John Winchester, a man with pride, and reason to be proud, a dad a kid could admire. Seeing him as he was now, sprawled on the couch, empty glass on the floor where it had fallen from his hand, the room in disarray around him, made Dean feel things he didn't even know how to classify.

Anger, disappointment, pity, he wasn't sure. He just knew, he sure didn't like it. Like anyone else, he'd had his share of letdowns in life, but this was a whole new level. The rapid erosion of his family had taken a toll on the man that Dean had always seen as invincible and nothing in his experiences so far had ever prepared him for having to watch his father fall so far so fast.

"Dad, hey Dad" he slapped lightly at John's cheek, "Come on, time to get up."

After a few moments, his efforts paid off and John's lid rose sluggishly to reveal bloodshot eyes. With an obvious effort, he brought his vision into focus and became aware of Dean standing over him. His unsuccessful effort to rise ended in a pained groan.

Dean watched, at war with himself. Half of him wanted to tear into his father, borrowing heavily from John's own playbook. The other half worried and just wanted to make it all right. "I'm gonna make some coffee," he announced emotionlessly, rejecting both options. It had been a long day already, and he just didn't have the energy for a bunch of drama.

He found the kitchen in a worse state than it had been in the last time he'd had to come the previous week. He was disappointed, in spite of not really being surprised. He'd been hoping that John would pull himself up out of this spiral.

It had been a vain hope, born of desperation. Between his own grief, increased workload, tense home life, Dean had felt like one more scoop on an already full plate would break him completely and so, he'd allowed himself to indulge in denial. He rummaged through the mess looking for the coffee and came to terms with the fact that denial had ceased to be an option.

**XXXXX**

"Three weeks," John slurred into the mug that Dean had pushed upon him. His head hung and the steam from the black liquid within drifted up into his face.

"What, Dad?" Dean looked up from his search of the kitchen for the last of the dirty dishes.

"Yesterday was three weeks since she called last." John elaborated.

"I know, Dad." Dean responded uselessly. He wasn't really sure what else to say. Mary leaving, without warning or explanation, had surprised him, but it hadn't cut him as deeply as it had John. He had his own place, and family. He hadn't been rattling alone around a suddenly empty house the way John had. He could even understand, under the circumstances, a desire to reconnect with lost family. If that's what she needed to heal, he could accept it. He did wish she'd end the radio silence. That was what had pushed John beyond just drinking too much to a full blown quest to find comfort at the bottom of a bottle.

"Her number's stopped working." John rambled.

"Yeah, I know that too, Dad." Dean was at a loss. He'd nursemaided a few buddies through sloppy broken hearts in his time, but this was different. In those cases, he'd just take the guy out to get hammered and wingman him into a new hook up. Worked like a charm, but was utterly useless now.

"Something's happened." John slurred morosely.

"OK, that's it!" Dean snapped. The pile of dishes he'd collected clattered as he banged them down on the table. "Dad, this has got to stop. You know how Mom is. When she can't handle something she pulls back. She's not calling because she's tired of fighting. You know that as well as I do."

John didn't dispute it, but neither did he look convinced.

"Look," Dean continued, grasping at straws, "if anything had happened we'd have heard something from this uncle she's with, or the cops, or somebody."

It was an inversion of the early May morning that had found a near frantic Dean rushing into the garage in search of his father's more level headed guidance. If Dean were the introspective type he might have noticed that his life had been flipped mirror image. Without any preparation, he'd gone from being the family rogue that never troubled himself with worrying about consequences to the head of the family, saddled with holding everything together while the worries continued to pile higher. Faced with an evasive absent parent, covering someone else's missed shifts, watching the relationship drama, it was as if all his built up karma had come home to roost all at once.

John absently watched the swirling patterns play across the surface of the coffee. "I want her home." he implored. "I need her to come home, and I can't even tell her because she won't call. I can't call her, and I don't know what to do."

Something in Dean shifted in that moment. Like a switch had been flipped, a steely resolve crept through his being, swatting the beaten down feeling that had held him captive for months aside. He was done letting fate kick him around. If fate wanted a fight, he'd damn well give it one. "First," Dean instructed, getting his feet under himself in his new role, "you're going to drink that coffee. Then, when I'm sure you can stay standing up on your own, you're going to take a shower while I make some dinner, because, no disrespect, you smell like a distillery."

Whether it was Dean's authoritative tone, or that John's state had left him that suggestible, maybe a bit of both, neither of them knew. It got results, and that was all that mattered. The coffee had been made extra strong, and John's face scrunched up into a grimace at the bitter taste of his first sip.

"Uh-uh," Dean headed off any incoming complaint, "if you can stomach off-brand scotch, you can drink that." He watched expectantly, intense eyes unwavering, until John obediently took a good sized gulp, shuddering as he forced it down.

"Good," Dean encouraged him, "Keep going. I'll be swinging by in the morning to pick you up. Be sober and ready." The odd role reversal threw him a little off balance, but to stop the forward march of the destruction, to keep the next domino from falling, whatever it took, Dean was going to do. He'd lost enough, and come hell or high water, he wasn't going to lose John too.


	24. You May Be Right, I May Be Crazy

**December 11, 2007**

The search of John's usual hiding places wasn't yielding anything. Dean had to wonder if it was still worth the time it took. He'd done a pretty good job of keeping the booze cleared out of the house. It was rare that he ever found a hidden bottle anymore.

Trouble was, Dean couldn't watch John 24/7, so nothing prevented whatever bar hopping he chose to do. Frequently, Dean would have to find him and bring him home on top of drying him out. It would have been less trouble to just allow him to drink at home, but Dean knew that wasn't a solution. He was in over his head, and all he could do was tread water as best he could manage.

On a good day, he could scrape John together enough to go in to the garage. It didn't ease up the workload by much. Dean always took the time to double check John's work, just in case, but it kept him where Dean could keep an eye on him. He could at least know that he could go home after work, instead of spending an evening searching the usual haunts and pouring his father into bed once he found him. Today hadn't been one of the good ones.

The old place was starting to feel like home again. The shape John had been in, Dean hadn't had any real choice but to move back in and try to take care of him. It kept him busy, and in a way, that was a mercy. He didn't have time to dwell on things. Something more immediate than mourning his losses always seemed to be demanding his attention.

A loud purposeful knock announced that something unexpected had arrived to force its way to the top of his to-do list. Annoyed at the interruption, he stalked across the room to the door and yanked it open. Two men stood in the illumination of the porch light, one about his own age, the other, quite a bit older.

"Dean Winchester?" the older one inquired.

"Yeah?" it was just shy of a brush-off. There had never been a time that Dean was all that interested in hearing about "the good news" or the next state assembly hopeful. Lately, he had less patience for it than usual.

The man didn't speak again right away but just looked at him intently in a way that sort of gave Dean the creeps. "I'm sorry," he said, seeming to snap out of being lost in thought. "I'm Robert Campbell. This is my grandson, Christian." he indicated the younger man who gave a slight nod of acknowledgment.

Campbell, Dean fumbled with the name for the second or two that it took his work-wearied mind to put the pieces together. "You're my mom's Uncle Robert." he announced, catching up with the facts.

"Won't deny it." Robert confirmed.

Some of the stress etched into Dean's features gave way to a relieved smile. The shroud of unanswered questions that surrounded the mysterious "Uncle Robert" fled from his mind, unimportant compared to the implications of his presence here now. Dean stuck out his hand to shake, "It's awesome to finally meet you." he said sincerely. "We hadn't heard from Mom in so long we were starting to worry." He peered hopefully into the darkness behind the two men. "Is she with you?"

Robert clasped the proffered hand, "No, she's not with us right now."

"Wants to look her best when she sees Dad, I'll bet." Dean joked with a wink. "Well, come on in." he stepped back out of the doorway to make way. "Sorry the place is so trashed." he added as they entered. He'd been doing what he could to put the house back in order, but housekeeping just hadn't been the highest priority. Suddenly he was relieved that Mary hadn't come along with them. He was, he realized, going to have to get not just the house, but John as well, as presentable as he could manage before she did arrive.

"We know you all have been in a hard place." Robert assured him as he passed the threshold. "We're not here to judge you, Dean."

In contrast to the words, as Christian passed by he paused to look Dean up and down in a way that Dean had been in enough bar fights to recognize. He was being sized up. He met Christian's look and puffed up a bit, signaling that he wasn't going to be intimidated.

"I want you to know, Dean, how sorry I was to hear about what happened to Sam." Robert's words drew Dean's attention from the non-verbal male posturing. The older man had found his way to the shelves that housed the family photos. The picture of Sam in cap and gown, in the god awful school colors that someone in charge had mistaken for a good idea, was in his hand. I wish I'd been able to know him, while there was still time."

Despite the mystery surrounding him, Robert seemed like an OK kind of guy. Christian on the other hand, was making Dean edgy. He'd wordlessly taken over a spot near the window where he gave the impression of a man serving as lookout.

"Yeah, he was a guy worth knowing." Dean responded, trying to ignore the odd behavior of his new acquainted cousin.

"Is your father around?" Robert asked as he set the picture back in place.

Dean glanced up the stairs, "He's resting." Family or not, he was not telling virtual strangers that John was upstairs sleeping off his latest bender. "Like you said, hard time all around lately."

He realized he was going to need to know when he could expect Mary to arrive so he'd know how much time he had to work with. He figured he had until morning at least, but with all that had to be done, he wanted a more definite idea of a firm deadline. "But it's going to do him all kinds of good to see Mom." he ventured, prodding for information.

Because he'd already been running action plans in his head it took him a moment to become aware of the uncomfortable silence that had taken over the room.

"What?" he asked, unwelcome thoughts that he was reluctant to consider forcing their way into his head. "She's all right, isn't she?" it was almost a plea. He needed to hear it out loud so the troubling speculations would stop.

Robert's pained expression betrayed the answer before he spoke, "Son, I'd give anything there is to tell you yes."

The room seemed to dip sideways and fall away under him. Dean grabbed at the wall to steady himself. "What happened?" he choked out through a tightening throat. "Was there an accident or something?" A wave of nausea threatened to bring up his dinner. It wasn't happening. It couldn't be happening! "Tell me she's going to be all right!" he yelled desperately.

Robert's eyes were sad, sympathetic. "I'm sorry, Son." he said softly.

"You son of a bitch!" Dean exploded, reacting on pure base instinct. He didn't realize he'd crossed the distance and thrown the punch until Robert had deflected it and spun him around into a restraining hold. He struggled to break free. Raw emotion, dammed up for too long, overruled his rationale, leaving him a wounded animal hellbent on ripping into something, anything that got too near him.

"Christian, stand down!" Robert barked. The words broke through the haze of Dean's rage bringing him to his senses enough to become aware of the pistol leveled at him.

"It's all right," Robert calmly continued, "I'd be disappointed if any kin of Samuel's reacted any different." Christian's hesitation to lower the gun only lasted a fraction of a second. He eyed Dean carefully, ready to react should need be.

Satisfied his instructions had been followed, Robert addressed Dean, who had ceased struggling at the sight of the gun, but still seethed in the older man's hold. "Now Dean, I know you're upset, and any other time, I'd let you take a swing or two at me and get it out of your system. I've probably got that much coming, but we've got bigger fish just now." Dean felt himself being leveraged towards the couch. Robert was surprisingly strong for a man his age. "So, I'm going to have to ask you to have a seat, and try to keep ahold of yourself." he grunted out while he wrestled a resistant Dean into position.

He released Dean with enough of a push to send him stumbling backwards. He caught the back of his knee on the edge of the couch, lost his balance, and plopped heavily into the seat. "Getcher hands offa me." he snarled, swatting ineffectively at Robert, trying to retain some of his dignity with a pretense that he'd somehow effected his own release.

"Not bad for a civilian." Robert observed. "If you'd been raised like you ought to have been, you'd have been something to take note of, and that's for sure."

Dean had no idea what that meant, and at the moment, he really didn't care. He didn't dare try to stand back up, not with Christian looking like he'd be only too happy to draw on him again. "What happened to my mom?" he hissed. No way he was just going to sit there quietly and obediently.

Robert sighed as he took a seat on the edge of the coffee table so that they could talk face to face. "Dean, I've got some things to tell you that probably never should have been kept from you in the first place. There's no good way to say it, so I'm just going to tell you straight out, and you're going to think I'm as crazy as a coon-bit hound. I'm asking you to hear me out because that's what Mary would have wanted. Then we'll be on our way, no fuss."

Adrenaline pumped through Dean's system making his pulse race. He was still fuming, and the last thing he wanted was to agree to anything. It didn't seem like he had a lot of options though, and going along looked like the best one. "Fine, talk." he spat, not happy about it.

Robert produced a flask from his pocket. "Are you a drinking man, Dean?" he asked holding it out.

The truth was, Dean did feel like he could use a drink right about then. He'd quit drinking when he'd moved back home. It had been tough, but he knew he'd have to stay sober to have any chance of keeping John sober. It was tempting, but he wasn't about to take anything from this man that had invaded his life uninvited and ripped another piece of it away. "I've been cutting back." he coldly rejected the offer.

Robert shrugged, "Offer's open if you change your mind." He lightly tossed the flask onto the couch next to Dean. "I have a feeling you will." He ignored Dean's snort of contempt.

It didn't seem to Robert like Dean was going to get much more receptive, so he began. "The first thing you have to know is, I loved Mary like she was my own girl. Loved her enough to step back and let her take her chance on the life she wanted with your father, even though every part of me was saying no good could come of it."

Dean bristled at the perceived insult. "I'm not bad-mouthing your father, boy." Robert hastened to explain. "I only met John the one time, at my brother's funeral, but I thought he was a fine young man, still do. That's the first reason I ignored my gut. The other was, what Mary wanted, she found a way to get, and she wanted John. You've got her fire in you, no two ways."

Dean refused to acknowledge the compliment. "So far, I'm not hearing anything I need to know." he sneered.

Robert couldn't help a little smile of pride. The boy had a strength in him that no one can teach or learn. "Fair enough," he conceded, "what you need to know is, this family, your mother's family, we have a responsibility, and a little bit of a reputation to go along with it. Here lately, that's made things a lot more dangerous for all of us."

Whatever all this was, Dean was getting tired of putting up with it. "Oh sure, it's some kind of mob thing, right?" he quipped sarcastically. Christian responded with an aborted snort of a laugh.

Robert spared a disapproving glance at his grandson before answering. "No Dean, it's not a mob thing. That would be easier, but it is a family thing."

"OK, sure, let's talk about family." Dean challenged, his emotions running hot, overriding the discretion brought on by the earlier confrontation and the knowledge that at least one of these men was armed. "How about you get to the part where you call my mom out of the clear blue and con her into leaving **her** family? I mean, you've been AWOL my whole life, so what the hell?"

"Dean," Robert said hesitantly, sounding genuinely surprised, confusion apparent on his face. "I didn't call Mary."

"She came to us." Christian spoke for the first time since arriving.

Confusion knitted Dean's brow. That didn't check with what Dad had told him. Maybe, he considered, if he could expose a lie he could put an end to this game. "Why would she do that?" he tossed out a piece of bait.

For a tense few seconds Robert considered his answer before saying, "Because she hoped we could find out what happened to Sam."

That took the wind out of Dean's sails. The circumstances of Sam's death had never made any damn sense. Sure, people disappear sometimes, but Sam had turned back up almost 2000 miles away. He had no connection to the area or the other three victims, not one Dean knew about. The cops hadn't had any answers, just a bunch of questions for them. They were "working on it", which as far as Dean could tell, meant rearranging paperwork while the case got cold enough to justify filing it under unsolved.

He eyed Robert suspiciously. He had no reason to trust this man, and yet, if there was a chance at understanding what had happened, no matter how slim, he had to take it. He'd never forgive himself if he didn't. "And did you?" he ventured, bothering to really listen for the first time.

"Some," Robert answered, "but it won't be easy for you to hear."

"I can take it." Dean responded confidently. What could possibly be any worse than what he'd already been through? They'd had to have a closed casket. Even before weeks left to rot Sam's body had been savaged, but his ripped open torso hadn't been the worst of it. His face, frozen by death into a twisted mask of mortal terror, that was the image that haunted Dean's dreams, the one he had tried unsuccessfully to drink away. He'd been told not to look. He wished he had listened.

"I'd put money down that you can." Robert said with approval, "but I don't mean that the way you think. It won't be easy for you to believe. You like spooky movies, Dean?"

Dean shrugged, "I guess." He didn't know where this was going, but he was curious enough to go along with it, at least, for now.

"What if I told you," Robert continued, "that monsters aren't just in movies? That there's ghosts and even demons, right here in the real world? That the Campbells, we've been fighting things most people only ever see in nightmares since way back in the old country?"

Dean deflated as all the air went out of his hopes. "I guess I'd say that you were right about this much. You are all kinds of crazy, old man."

Robert chuckled, "Yeah well, you just might be right about that." Then he turned serious, "Son, I'm sorry to put all this on you so fast, especially now, when you've got to be hurting so bad, but I just don't have the time to gentle you into it. If I could spare you this, so help me, I would, but I closed my eyes once before, and this is where it got us."

Something about how earnest Robert seemed had Dean's mind flirting with the impossible even as he searched the old man's face for signs of deception. "What does this have to do with Sam?" he heard himself asking.

"What we know," Robert answered, speaking as if this was all perfectly normal, "is back in '73 a demon, powerful one, started collecting kids, ones that weren't even born yet. Spring of this year, all those same kids died in the same ghost town in South Dakota where none of them had any business being." He left out the part about the parents' demon deals. Dean was at least listening, but Robert knew that would turn on a dime if he told the truth about Mary's secret. Dean wasn't ready to hear about that, not yet.

"What we don't know is why, what the demon was trying to do." he went on. "Now it's possible that it just wanted death for death's sake, bring misery down on all those families."

"But you don't think so." Dean observed not quite believing he was even listening to any of this.

"No, I don't," Robert confirmed. "Doesn't make sense to go to all that trouble when it would be easier to just kill folks at random. No, this is some kind of plan playing out, and for some reason, your brother was a part of it."

"We don't know what kind of storm is blowing in, but it's a big one. I've seen more demon sign in the last six months than I'd seen in the whole rest of my life, and that's saying something coming from an old huntin' dog like me."

"Whatever they're doing, that hellspawn doesn't like us poking our noses into it. Mary isn't the only person I've lost this year. We've all got targets on our backs, and that means you and yours too."

It was too much to process. The whole unbelievable tale flip-flopped in Dean's mind and he found he had to remind himself that it was all utterly impossible. He searched what he'd heard, wondering if, like most lies, there were any hidden grains of truth within it. Was Mom really dead? Was this guy even really her uncle? His eyes flicked towards the flask.

"Go ahead," Robert urged him, "its a lot to swallow without something to wash it down."

If there was ever a time to fall off the wagon, this was it, and that was all the permission that Dean needed. He tentatively reached for the flask with a shaky hand. The metallic scrape of the cap as he unscrewed it seemed loud in the lull of conversation. Dean took a good sized drink followed quickly with a second one.

"Feel better?" Robert asked, his concern genuine.

"No," Dean choked through the burn. He could put away his fair share of beer and then some, but he'd never made a habit of anything stronger.

"Give it time to work." Rober advised him.

"You two do know you're both a few slices short of a whole pie, right?" Dean rasped, thumping his chest with a fist.

"You sure?" Christian spoke up. "Sure enough to risk your life? Your family's lives? Because that's what's at stake."

"Christian's right, Dean." Robert quickly seized back control of the conversation. The last thing he needed right now was for these two hot tempered young bucks to go to butting heads. "It's not pretty, but the truth usually isn't. We attracted attention when we turned this rock over. We've got demons out for blood, our blood, and they've taken a fair amount of it already. We're in an all out feud with Hell, and the truth is," he paused, carefully considering what he was about to say, "we need all hands on deck."

"All hands," Dean repeated. "You mean **me**?" he exclaimed in shocked disbelief.

"Late start or not, I'd wager there's a damned fine hunter in you." Robert confirmed Dean's assumption. "This is your birthright, boy, who you were supposed to be. You've got a family waiting to welcome you home." he said with intensity. "And just you keep in mind, those demons, they don't care that you never hunted a day, or what you do or don't believe. Sooner or later they'll be coming, and you'll either be ready or you'll die, or worse."

Dean fumbled for a response, dismay splayed across his features, The liquor was starting to make his head sluggish and it was all just too surreal to get a grasp on.

"Whatever you decide, we're going to try and look out for you. I figure I owe Mary that much, but it'd be a damned sight easier with you back in the fold." He fished a notepad from his pocket and scribbled down a number that he dropped on the table. "Don't take too long deciding. I can't promise how long you've got." He stood and jerked his head towards the door, signaling Christian that it was time to go.

It might have been the whiskey kicking in, making the ridiculous seem more reasonable, or maybe protective instinct on guard against even the least likely of threats, but something made Dean call out, "Wait!" before they reached the door.

The pair stopped and looked back expectantly.

"I...I've got a kid," Dean explained, his voice strained.

"We know," Christian told him. "Best thing for him is he doesn't get raised with his eyes closed like you and Sam did. You see where that got him. Like grandpa said, decide fast."

"Christian," Robert began to speak, but Christian wasn't listening.

"No, grandpa, I'm sorry, but he needs to know. We've wasted enough time on babying him."

Robert looked at Dean sympathetically and sighed, "It's not fair, Son, but he's not wrong."

They were barely out the door before Dean was already wondering if the whole bizarre series of events had even really happened, the defensive mechanism that makes humans explain away anything too strange to deal with kicking in. He noticed that Robert had left his flask behind. Under the circumstances, having another drink seemed like the reasonable thing to do.


	25. I'm A Little Drunk, And I Need You Now

There was a sound, and then again. The phone was ringing. Why was the phone ringing? What time was it, and why was the phone ringing? Not quite awake, Brenda groped in the dark around the nightstand, knocking things aside in her blind search for the offending device. The question of who could be calling in the middle of the night drifted sluggishly through her head.

Her fingers found the phone and not bothering to lift her head from the pillow she glanced at the caller ID. Of course, she thought, unable to fathom how she hadn't known without looking. She made no attempt to hide her irritation when she answered, skipping "hello" in favor of, "Whatever it is could have waited until morning, Dean."

"I know," Dean's ragged voice stammered at the other end of the line, "it's late."

"It's closer to early." she informed him. "Have you been drinking? Did you drunk dial me?" In the clear light of day, fully conscious, she would have been disappointed. Dean sobering up had been the one good thing to come from the fallout to his family. As it was, woken from a sound sleep, with work in the morning, she was just pissed.

"No," he denied the accusation and then amended, "well, not much. I'm not drunk. I just...can I come over? I need to talk. I mean, I **really** need to talk."

Talk? Was he serious? Now? After everything? **Now **he wanted to talk? "See a therapist, Dean." she said sarcastically, "I'm not biting on that line, not again."

Dean winced. He couldn't blame her for what she was thinking. She'd learned what expectations to have of him because he'd been the one to teach her. "OK, I deserved that." he admitted, "but this isn't that. I'm not trying to sweet talk my way back into the house, or the bed. I screwed that up and there's no going back. I get that."

"I'm hanging up, Dean." she said flatly.

"No, wait!" he burst out. Words flew from his lips in a desperate attempt to keep her from ending the call. "Look, everything in my life just keeps getting crazier, and I can't stop it. I can't even understand half of it. I can't keep doing this alone. I just can't. I have to talk to somebody. Sam's dead. Mom's god knows where. Dad's not...doing good. You're all I've got left. Talk, just talk, that's all, I swear, Baby, please."

Brenda pinched the bridge of her nose. She should just hang up. She knew this. Every ounce of common sense she had impressed this fact upon her. Give Dean Winchester half a chance and he could charm you into or out of anything before you knew what hit you. It was a lesson she had learned the hard way, eventually. Don't say anything, just hang up, an inner voice urged her even as she heard herself saying, "You don't have me, Dean, not anymore."

That wasn't so bad, the voice reassured her. That's the perfect place to punctuate with a click.

"Look," she explained as she ignored the voice demanding to know why she was still talking to him, "I hope you can get yourself back together, you and your dad both, but I just can't keep doing this with you. It's too hard. We tried and it didn't work out. At some point, I have to take care of me."

Dean felt the only remaining link to the last time his life had felt something like normal slipping from his grasp, a single, fragile thread that threatened to snap at any second. "You're not wrong," he confessed miserably. "You didn't deserve what I put you through for the past...well ever." He was desperate now, a man slipping downhill, frantically grasping at whatever he could reach in hopes of slowing the descent. "I don't have the right to ask you for anything, and I'm not. I'm not asking. I'm begging. If you still care about, even a little bit, can you please just do this for me?"

Brenda couldn't be sure, but she thought he might be crying. She wasn't sure what to do with that. The Dean she knew dealt with emotional drama in two ways, anger, and humor. She'd spent years learning to navigate that. Now, he sounded so broken, and that blindsided her. She didn't have a map for this situation. "Damn you, Dean Winchester," she muttered, frustrated. "And damn me for ever agreeing to go out with you." she added.

This, she told herself, this is why you just hang up. This is why you don't give him even half a chance and now it's too late.

"I know, and you're right." Dean seized on the opening. "I'd do anything to fix us if I could, but I can't. That's on me and I'm gonna be kicking myself for it for the rest of my life. You gotta believe me, I wouldn't be bothering you if I had anybody else I could go to. Please, I'm begging here. I can't be alone right now."

Silence hung heavy on the line. She did still care. She'd understood when Dean had had to move back home. She still understood it. She just accepted that John's problem was not one that would be solved in a weekend, or a week, or maybe not ever. How many times had she waited for Dean to come back from where ever he'd wandered off to? Just how long was she supposed to wait for a man that may not be coming back at all this time? It wouldn't be fair to Dean to let him think the door was still open when it just wasn't. She was done.

"Baby," Dean's voice broke into her thoughts, "please."

He was definitely crying she realized, and that's probably what broke her resolve. "You are not staying over, Dean." she told him firmly. "I mean it. Do not show up with a suitcase, or a change of clothes. If you have so much as a toothbrush on you, you don't get past the front door. Are we clear?"

"Yeah, I get it." he hastily agreed, on guard against doing anything to screw this up, "no over-nighter, check,"

"And don't ring the bell." she added, "I'll watch for you. I don't want Little John to wake up and get the wrong idea."

That stung, but Dean endured it without complaint. He figured he had it coming, less than he deserved really. "yeah, OK," he swallowed hard, choking down the emotion. "Hey, Brenda, thank," the line clicked as he was speaking. By the time he said, "you" it was to dead air. All things considered, it had gone better than he had expected.


	26. A Matter Of Trust

**December 12, 2007 (technically)**

Brenda had been quiet for what seemed like a very long time, absorbing everything Dean had said. Curled up in the corner of the sofa, her gaze had stayed focused on the hastily made cup of instant coffee that had gone cold in her hands. "What you're telling me," she ventured, lifting her eyes to where Dean sat at the other end of the couch looking like five miles of bad road, "is apparently, insanity runs in your mother's family." Her eyes flicked nervously towards the hallway, towards the room where their son, Dean's son, lay sleeping, blissfully unaware of the growing shadows rapidly spiraling in on his family.

"I don't know," Dean replied, the weight of the evening's events evidenced in his voice and posture. "I don't even know for sure that they are related to my mom. For all I know, they could be a couple of loose screws that fell out of the cuckoo's nest and just picked my door to knock on. That's more believable than all this 'long line of demon hunters' crap isn't it?" His voice conveyed just how desperately he wanted that to be true.

"OK," Brenda agreed, tentatively, "but then how did they know your name? How did they know everything, about Sam, about your mom? You certainly don't talk about it." Not even to me, she thought bitterly.

Dean shrugged, "Dad maybe? He's drunk more than he's sober lately. No telling what he's been saying to who while he was three sheets free."

"I guess that's possible," she admitted skeptically, "but why? I mean, even if John was crying in his beer about Sam dying and Mary leaving him..."

"She didn't leave him!" Dean barked, jumping to his feet and immediately felt like an ass. He sagged back down onto the couch, risking a sideways look at Brenda, who did not look happy. "Oh crap," he moaned, "I'm sorry, Bren."

"I know," she sighed tiredly, "You always are. Look, Dean, you called me, two in the morning, practically, no, **literally** begged me..." she cut herself off. By some miracle, the outburst didn't seem to have woken Little John. An argument most certainly would, so she swallowed down her ire and took a more gentle approach. "This has been a lot for you, I know, but..."

"But I maxed out my credit a long time ago," Dean saved her from having to say it. "I shouldn't have dragged you back into this. It's my problem to deal with. I'll just go." He started to rise.

"No," she stopped him with a soft hand on his shoulder. "You're here. You've already told me everything. Let's just do this now so I don't have to wonder when the other shoe will be dropping."

Dean had not, in fact, told her everything. He'd stopped short of the part about demons hunting anyone with Campbell blood. He couldn't imagine a scenerio where that would have ended well.

His nod was more a surrender than an agreement. He'd been through the wringer and his nerves were stretched to the point of snapping. He knew he'd pushed his luck with the explosion. Going along with whatever Brenda wanted was just safer, easier. Obediently he eased back into his seat almost relieved to been absolved of the decision.

"OK," she started fresh when he was settled, "even if John was talking about...everything, where he could be overheard, why would anyone track down his address and show up talking about all this crazy demon stuff? That'd be a lot to go through for a joke on a total stranger if it was a good joke. For a sick one like this, it just doesn't make sense."

"It's not impossible, though." Dean pointed out. "There's some pretty messed up people out there." His voice and posture conveyed how much he needed it not to be true, because if any of it was true then maybe his mother really was... gone.

Branda chewed at the inside of her cheek, considering it all. "I think you should call the police." she announced conclusively.

Dean had already considered that. "And tell them what? A couple of guys, claiming to be family, showed up at my place, said some weird stuff, and left without causing any damage? They'd write it all down, file it, and forget it, just like they did with Sam."

"Well," Brenda speculated, "maybe there's a way to find out if they really are family, like a records search or something."

"Sam would have known just how to do that." Dean observed glumly.

"I'm sure we can figure it out ." she tried to sound confident.

Dean lifted his head to meet her eyes. "We?" he repeated, certain that he must have misheard, not daring to hope otherwise.

Brenda sighed heavily, resigning herself to the inevitable. Dean was a drug that was hard to get out of your system, and like it or not, she was hooked. "Yes, we," she confirmed, not sounding entirely happy about it. "I'm all you've got, remember?"

Dean didn't know how much to read into that. He studied her face for a clue, holding his tongue for fear of assuming too much, or too little. Seconds passed, and it felt like he'd let the silence go on too long. Nervously, he licked his lips and leaned the tiniest bit towards her, ready to plead a misunderstanding and deny everything if things went south.

She didn't close the distance between them, but she didn't pull back, didn't issue any sort of protest either. Her eyes locked with his as she struggled with her own internal conflict. "Dean," she said softly, "I..." She would never finish that sentence, interrupted by the terrorized scream of a young voice that pierced up the hallway, cutting through the early morning quiet and sending Dean vaulting over the back of the sofa to barrel towards his son's bedroom.


	27. Aces And Eights

**December 12, 2007 (cont)**

Dean's concerns hadn't solidified into a specific fear. Logic, a lifetime's worth of evidence of certain realities, tried to insist that Little John had woken from a bad dream. Something deeper, more instinctive, knew that a nightmare wouldn't have sent him into a headlong rush on a route that took him over rather than around furniture. Bizarre conversations with strange visitors had sparked paranoid speculations in his mind, but he hadn't really believed them. He hadn't been truly prepared for what waited for him when he burst through the bedroom door.

Little John was not in the bed, nor was he alone in the room. It didn't matter that the woman that held him before herself like a shield, one arm wrapped around his torso, was small in stature, not very formidable looking at all. It was the nasty looking T-handled blade that she held to the child's throat that kept him controlled. He barely dared to turn terror stricken eyes towards his father when Dean exploded into the room.

"Dean Winchester," the intruder greeted him casually, as if this were a chance meeting at a party, but with a certain menacing quality thinly veiled under the feigned civility, "so nice to meet you." Her gaze played over Dean's frame, "They told me you were prime cut, but I had no idea how true that was."

Dean barely heard the words. Primal protective instinct, not interested in words, drove him forward. He only made it a single step.

"Uh-uh, don't do that, Daddy," the woman warned him, tightening her grip on her hostage, "or else Junior here stains the carpet."

Dean's higher functions clicked back in and he stopped short. His heart pounded in his chest as the fact that there was no way to cross the distance before it would be too late took hold. Fear and anger grappled with each other in his head, battling for control and he struggled to beat them both back and stay clear enough to think.

"Dean?" Brenda's voice called from up the hall.

"Don't come in here!" he yelled over his shoulder, not taking his eyes from his son for fear of what might happen if he looked away. "Call 911!" he added.

The woman's jerked her gaze to one side and a crash sounded from the living room. Brenda's cry sounded more like surprise than pain, for what little comfort that provided. "Afraid I can't let her do that, Dean." the stranger explained, "We need to do this without interruptions."

"What the hell is this?" Dean demanded, his mind racing for a way to deal with the situation while struggling to keep the urge to panic controlled. "Whatever you want, just take it and go."

"Whatever I want?" she responded playfully. The whole situation seemed to be excessively entertaining to her. She played the blade over the soft flesh of Little John's neck, letting the edge scratch lightly over his skin, "What if what I want is to see your face when I open your brat like a bag of chips?" A frightened whimper squeaked out of the boy.

Dean fought down a wave of nausea, expecting the worst, but it didn't come. A puzzle piece clicked into place in his mind. Whether from years of poker games or the blood of his ancestors waking up and flowing through his veins for the first time with the strength and resolve of a hunter there was no way to know. Hope dared to blossom in his chest, however, because what he did know, for sure, was, she was bluffing.

"No," he said as coolly as he could manage, fighting off a shudder at the thought of the stakes he was playing for, "if that was it, you'd have just done it by now."

She stopped toying with the knife, "Clever," observed, "beauty and brains, I can see why you're a keeper."

Dean's heart leapt at the small victory. He chanced a glance down, trying to catch Little John's eye. There was but fear there and Dean couldn't be sure that the boy saw through the haze of it at first. Then, hesitantly, his eyes shifted and met his father's gaze. Hold on, son, Dean thought earnestly, willing Little John to somehow hear him. I don't know how, but I swear, I'm going to get you out of this.

Hoping he wasn't overplaying his hand Dean addressed the woman, "You know my name, what I look like. It's not him you want. You're here for me."

"Not bad," she allowed, "we need to talk."

"Fine," Dean hissed, "you want me, you got me. Let the kid go and we'll talk about whatever you want, sweetheart." He hoped the shake in his voice was just his imagination.

"Oh, Dean," disappointment tinted her voice, "and here I was thinking you were smart." She hunched over putting her own face inches from the captive child's, taking in the sight of his frightened expression like an art piece on display. "Why would I give up my leverage without getting anything out of the deal?" she asked.

"What do you want?" Dean demanded, frustration making him forget about caution. He just wanted this over, the costs be damned.

"You love him, don't you?" she asked impassively, still examining her small hostage. The word sounded strange in her mouth, as if she didn't quite grasp the concept.

"Yes!" Dean whispered hoarsely on reflex. He wasn't sure where this was going and a countermove eluded him.

"See, that works in my favor." she explained breaking off her study of the frightened child and looking back at Dean. "That's what makes you humans so easy."

Under less stress, less distracted, Dean might have put the pieces together. As it was, it was just one more odd thing about a situation already bizarre in a dozen ways. Had it really been this same night that he'd been rifling cupboards, his biggest concern uncovering any hidden stashes of liquor?

"Would you die for him?" the woman asked with interest. Little John, too frightened to even manage a whimper shook viably as the cold metal of the knife edge pressed against his throat. Sad, desperate eyes begged his father to somehow make it all go away.

"Yes!" Dean blurted without thought or hesitation.

"I knew that." she informed him, "but I have to ask for formality." She rolled her eyes, seemingly annoyed, "It's a whole thing."

"Just tell me what you want!" Dean yelled, fighting down the urge to bolt across the room. No way that ends well. He was ready to do whatever it took to get Little John safely out of that room. The time wasting cat a and mouse was testing his already frayed nerves.

"All right, Dean," she snapped, "since you're going to suck all the fun out of this, we'll cut to the chase. Would you go to Hell for him?"

"Would I...what?" Dean stammered, unable to process what he'd heard.

"It's very simple, Dean." she answered, suddenly all business, "Would you willingly damned your soul to everlasting torment just to buy this fragile little thing a handful more decades, a drop in the ocean of time, in this imperfect mess of a world?"

"Yes," Dean answered desperately.

"See, I knew you would say that too, but here's the thing," she paused and while Dean watched disbelieving her eyes filled with darkness, becoming somehow blacker than black, "it doesn't count because you don't really believe it."

Things Dean had always assumed he knew for a fact collided in his brain with what he saw with his own two eyes and became a hopeless tangle. All he could do was stammer, "What the hell are you?"

"Don't be stupid, Dean." she snapped impatiently. "You know. You just don't want to admit it. It messes with your fragile little view of the world. Well, sack up and get over it because self deception isn't a luxury you have anymore. Now one more time, for all the marbles, knowing it's for real, your soul in Hell for your brat's pathetic life, deal?"

"Yes, fine, deal," Dean frantically agreed sparing no time on consideration.

With a sadistic smirk the she-demon shoved Little John off to the side, all interest in him gone now that she'd achieved her objective. The boy tumbled to the floor where he curled up on himself. His emotional dam burst and sobs shook his small body.

"Stay!" the demon barked when Dean moved to bolt to his son. She crossed the room, something about her black, insect like eyes holding Dean pinned where he was, transfixed. She took his face in her hands, smiling seductively. For a moment Dean thought she intended to kiss him. He began to pull back in revulsion. There was a quick motion. A grating crunch filled his ears and scraped against the inner wall of his skull and he was looking down at his own body, head twisted at an impossible angle. Lifeless green eyes stared off into the distance at nothing.

"Welcome to the other side, Dean-o." the demon said dryly.

Before he could think to respond a loud crash and the sound of splintering wood interrupted. Urgent voices sounded from up the hall.

"Time to go." the demon observed. She grabbed ahold of the disembodied soul and they were gone.

Dean wasn't there to see Robert erupt into the room, nearly tripping over the fresh corpse. "Damn it," the old hunter cursed dropping to one knee to feel for a pulse that he knew he wouldn't find. Guilt and grief boiled up in him, but he shoved it down. There would be time later. He moved quickly to scoop up Little John from where he lay crying on the floor.

Instinctively the terrorized child turned towards comfort, burying his face in Robert's chest as the hunter carried him from the room. Robert couldn't be sure how much the boy had seen, but was determined that he wasn't going to see any more, not tonight. Ignoring the wet circle of tears and snot that blossomed on his shirt he moved quickly to the door, getting the kid clear before he caught a glimpse of his father's body still and lifeless on the floor.

In the living room Christian was attempting to keep a frantic, disheveled Brenda contained without manhandling her. He ceased his efforts when Robert entered the room, allowing her to dart around him and rush forward to retrieve her son. As Robert transferred Little John into his mother's eager arms he caught Christian's eye over her shoulder and gave a grim faced shake of his head.

Without instruction or response Christian moved towards the hallway. He knew, without being told, that Robert wouldn't leave Dean's body behind and that was what was right. Civilian upbringing or not, the guy did have guts and he'd gone out like a hunter in the end. A proper funeral was the least they could do, considering that they'd been too late to do more.

Brenda tearfully tried to calm Little John and check him for damage at the same time. "Get packed," Robert told her, "I can give you five minutes. Less would be better."

"What? I don't...who…?" she stammered too shook to be able to complete the thought. Being flung through the air and pinned to a wall, left unable to move, unable to scream, trapped by something she couldn't see, or even really feel had taken a toll. She was functioning primarily on instinct for the moment.

Robert took her chin in calloused fingers, gently but firmly making her look at him, "Girl, you listen to me. I'm getting real damn tired of making the same mistake over and over again. You're coming with us to someplace safe. That's just the way it's going to be. You can walk out to the truck on your own, or I can have Christian carry you kicking and screaming, whichever way you want to do it. Now, do you want to get some things together for you and the boy before we go?"

Enough of what he was saying filtered through the haze of her overloaded awareness. She nodded numbly, not understanding, but able to accept that something beyond her ability to handle on her own was happening. It would take time before it took root and grew, but the seed of knowledge that everything Dean had told her had been true had been planted.


	28. Along For The Ride

**?, ?, ?**

It was early, full light, but not far enough into the new day for most people to have stirred themselves to venturing out of doors. The motel parking lot was quiet, populated only by a congregation of wild birds on the business of foraging while they could before the bustle of human traffic arrived to force them to the higher ground provided by trees and rain gutters.

The door to room 15 flew open with a bang. Sam burst out of the room at a run. The feathered scavengers took to the air around him in a flurry of beating wings as he plowed through their midst.

"Damn it, Sam!" Dean's voice bellowed from the room behind him. Seconds later the Elder Winchester brother was out the door, struggling to jam one arm into a twisted shirt sleeve as he gave chase. He was the more fit of the two, allowing him to chew up Sam's head start in short order. He gave up on the sleeve. The lose half of the shirt flapped behind him as he ran. Just as Sam reached the car, Dean, desperate not to let his quarry escape, judged himself near enough and launched himself forward, pouncing like a cougar.

The impact of the flying tackle slammed Sam up against the front fender, pinning him between the hard metal and his brother's onslaught. The deep grunt forced out of him evidenced that he had felt the blow, but Sam had no intention of surrendering his prize. Dean's arms flayed around Sam's torso on either side in an effort to make a grab at his heisted keys, which Sam managed to keep just out of reach due to his longer limbs.

Trying to escape, Sam hoisted himself up, hoping he could scramble across the hood and reach the driver's seat. Dean, however, hellbent on getting his key ring back, attached himself tenaciously to his fleeing brother. Arms and legs got tangled up as the battle raged across the hood of the old classic that thankfully had built tough enough to withstand the impressive combined weight of two overgrown adolescents.

"Dean, stop it!" Sam huffed, twisting around, trying to throw his brother off of him. "It's my turn." he insisted in a voice gritty from the excursion.

"Nope," Dean grunted as he tried to struggle within reach of his keys and keep Sam pinned down at the same time, "changed my mind. I can do thaaahh...fuu…!"

Sam had bucked up under Dean's weight in and effort to break free. The motion took them past the tipping point. Gravity entered as a third participant in the tussle sending them rolling together off of the hood and onto the pavement.

Dean got the worst of it, landing first. Barely a second after the world stopped spinning around him Sam's full weight dropped on his chest sending the air rushing from his lungs in a hard gasp.

Sam recovered first. He leapt to his feet. With a triumphant grin he bolted for the driver's side door. Dean scrambled up with a groan. Broken back and cracked ribs aside, he was getting his damned car keys back, if it killed the both of them. He started around the cars front end but Sam was already pulling the driver's door open, so he doubled back, heading for the passenger side.

"Sam, I'm warning you," he growled an unfinished threat as he yanked the door open and stormed into the vehicle a dangerous sort of look in his eye.

Sam didn't say anything, just flashed a "whatchya gonna do about it" expression borrowed from the days of being ordered out of his newly teen aged brother's room. Making sure to look Dean right in the eye, he slotted the key.

"Turn that key and you're a dead man," Dean warned, "I swear to god, Sam." It wasn't hard to figure out where this was heading and Dean was not playing, not with what lay in the balance.

"Sorry, big brother," Sam happily informed him, "but they're your rules. Driver picks the music." He fished into his shirt pocket for his i-pod, relieved to discover it hadn't tumbled out during the unplanned free for all. He anticipated Dean's reaction, ready to fully relish the sweet satisfaction of the moment of revenge, but oddly Dean didn't seem to have a response.

"Oh don't sulk," Sam jeered, glancing up from the device in his hand. Dean wasn't just quiet, he was still. It wasn't at all unusual for a classic rebuild or pretty girl to grab Dean's attention and make him momentarily forget about the existence of the rest of the world. Sam was long since used to it. This wasn't that though. Dean was still like someone had pressed the pause button on reality.

"Dean?" Sam spoke, voice tinged with confusion and concern, "What the hell?"

"Exactly the opposite actually," Sam jumped startled by the voice. He whipped around to discover the backseat occupied by a middle aged, middle management type.

"Who the hell are you?" Sam barked, trying to get a handle on odd turn of events, "What's going on?"

"You're a smart boy, Sam." the stranger observed, his calm demeanor setting a marked contrast to Sam's freaked out agitation, "If you think about it, I'm sure you'll find out that you already know."

The words sparked a hazy image that flashed through his mind, like a bit of a barely remembered dream, or a sudden movement on the edge of perception that left you wondering just what it was you had seen.

There'd been a kid, he remembered, right around Little John's age, but a girl.

He hadn't known where he was.

Was she lost? She'd probably been lost.

He was lost, or at very least, misplaced.

He'd been trying to help her. Disjointed tendrils slowly entwined in his head, weaving around each other and forming into a completed tapestry, a forgotten story.

He'd wanted to help, assumed her to be another victim of whoever it was that had abducted Andy and himself. He'd called out to her. She'd turned.

Her face…Sam's body jerked in involuntary spasm at the memory. It had been a horrific thing, just human enough to provide a sickening parody of humanity, with sunken eyes and twisted features. Sam closed his eyes and shook his head, reluctant to hold the image in his mind even now.

She'd rushed at him, as is for a hug, her movements jerky and unnatural, a choppy, worn piece of reel to reel footage, stepping into the real world in 3D. The pain had been overpowering, blocking out any ability to think, any awareness of a world beyond the feeling of her aberrantly long nails, talons really, slicing through the soft flesh below his ribs, carving their way to the vital parts beneath. He could actually feel each individual one as it cut its own path to his insides. Just before it all went black, there had been laughter, malicious and childlike, as she'd squeezed at his guts like clay, gleefully ripping chunks of them out.

His eyes opened, "Am I dead?" he asked. It felt strange, how casually he could say the words.

"Got it in one," the stranger confirmed.

"So this is…" he found himself unable to finish. It was too absurd, too far beyond anything he'd ever been taught to think of as normal.

"Heaven, yes," the stranger supplied, "Well, more accurately, it's your Heaven, not so much Heaven as a whole." He glanced over to where Dean still sat freeze framed, "Although, from your file, I'd have expected you'd have higher standards. But hey, we don't interfere with content as long as it doesn't violate the standard TOS. If this is how you want to spend eternity, that's entirely your own problem."

Sam struggled to get his brain to accept what was happening, "So if this is Heaven, than are you…" Again he just couldn't seem to make himself finish.

"An angel," the visitor confirmed, tired of waiting, "Name's Zachariah. You know, when I was briefed for this meeting, I got the impression that you could speak in full sentences."

Sam gaped at him. His thoughts divided themselves between struggling to grasp what was happening and wondering if there was a standard protocol for when an angel dropped in unexpected on one's personal Heaven. Was he supposed to offer a cup of coffee? A tour of the place? Sacrifice a bull maybe? He had no clue.

"Don't bother," Zachariah said, even though Sam hadn't actually voiced any of his rambling thoughts, "we're not staying. There's something you need to see."

It seemed to Sam like there should have been a flash, or a ripple or something, some Hollywood worthy special effects that heralded the use of angelic power, but there wasn't. They were just now standing in the middle of an empty street with no more fanfare than a sound of beating wings, like all the individual thumps and thrums of the flock Sam had disturbed earlier had combined together into one larger sound. He stumbled a bit, his body catching up with having gone directly from seated to standing.

Sam surveyed his new surroundings. He would have known that something wasn't right even without the boarded up windows, abandoned vehicles and loose debris littering the area. While all the set dressing for a dystopian drama was present it was something else, some distortion in the very essence of the place that no movie had ever captured that made him shudder without knowing why. It was quiet, in a way cities were never meant to be, and there was a sense of being watched by something that lurked just beyond perception, just waiting for a chance to rush up on a turned back.

"Where are we?" Sam asked once he could make words come.

"Hard to recognize, isn't it?" Zachariah observed. His mood was hard to pin down. It was either a subtle empathy for whatever tragedy had befallen this place or a disinterested indifference.

Sam scanned the crumbling husks of the surrounding buildings, a sick sort of tickle growing in the pit of his stomach as his ability to deny what he knew gradually slipped away from him. "This is Lawrence, isn't it?" he asked, already knowing the answer as he forced the words out. Saying it out loud somehow made it real.

"It was." Zachariah confirmed, his voice breathy and bored.

Sam whirled on him, "Well what happened?" he demanded, "What about my brother, my parents? Are they all right?" He stepped closer to the angel, no idea what he could possibly do, but rising emotions of fear and anger spurring him forward into some undetermined and likely ill-advised action.

Zachariah stood his ground, unconcerned about the human's threatening approach. Stymied, Sam halted his advance and swung his gaze over his surroundings, trying to get his bearings, ready to tear off in towards home just as soon as he could sort out which direction that would be.

"Calm down," Zachariah instructed, "you can't do anything. Think of this as a live video feed, non-interactive."

Sam was losing his patience with the malleable quality that his reality had taken on and the one piece at a time method with which the angel was dolling out the information. "Is this real?" he inquired, wanting real answers, "I mean, did whatever this is really happen?"

"Not yet," Zachariah admitted, "This is a live feed, but we routed it through a sort of temporal peep hole. This is what will happen if we don't stop it."

"We?" Sam asked, confused but also relieved that the angel's answers seemed to be losing some of their cryptic, minimal data spin, "you mean like, you and me, we?"

The angel seemed somewhat amused by the presumption, "No, this is a much bigger collaborative effort than that, but you're a very important cog in the machinery." Clearly he expected Sam to be impressed with that last bit.

"Me?" Sam couldn't quite get his mind to accept what he was hearing. Twenty minutes ago he'd been wrestling Dean over his right to a fair share of the driving, and now everything had followed Alice down the rabbit hole. "Why me? What can I do? I'm nobody special, just some average guy from small town, America."

Zachariah looked him in the eye. "You're wrong, Sam." he said seriously. "You are so much more. Remember this?" with a snap of the angel's fingers they were in a dark field. Through the dark Sam could make out the familiar shape of the Impala, the silhouettes of himself and Dean perched on the hood.

"People get caught up in things they can't control, in a system they don't understand. They need to be saved because they can't save themselves. I want to be the guy that can help." he heard the other him say.

"Did you mean that?" Zachariah asked, "Is that still what you want, or would you rather go back to that never ending buddy comedy that you've confused with paradice?"

"But I still don't...what can I even do?" Sam babbled. He could accept that he was dead. He could even accept that this was Heaven, complete with angels. Sam Winchester, savior of the world, um yeah, sorry, that one was going to take a little longer.

"I know your religious upbringing was pretty much non-existant thanks to your mother's paranoia, but you have heard of Michael, right?" Zachariah asked.

"The Archangel?"

Zachariah's expression looked pained, "No, the guy in the bathroom," he remarked with heavy sarcasm. "Forget it," he continued when Sam only looked perplexed, "after your time, yes the Archangel. He cast Lucifer down before and he'll do so again, but this time he can't do it without your help. You are chosen." He puncuated the declartion with a finger poke to Sam's chest.

"Chosen how? Why?" Sam wanted to know.

"Who knows," Zachariah shrugged, "God does love an underdog, and this time around turns out you're the pick of the litter. Step up, play your part, the horsemen never ride, the world keeps spinning."

"And what would my part be?" Sam challenged, "You've been pretty elusive about that so far."

Zachariah waved his hand and a sort of a doorway opened up, just existing, hanging there in nothing. Through the opening Sam could glimpse a portion of what seemed to be a high end office. "Step into my office, young Winchester," Zachariah prompted him, "and we'll begin the negotiations. I'm confident we can reach an agreement that's going to make us both very happy."

Sam hesitated, instinctively looking back over his shoulder, even though what lay behind him currently had no relation to where he'd been recently. "What about my brother?" he asked, "Does he know I'm gone, or does he just stay frozen, paused, whatever it is?"

The angel sighed, annoyed with how frustratingly slow humans could be, even the bright ones. "That wasn't your brother, Sam, "he explained, "just a manifestation of your memories of him. Your family's fine, and as long as you do your job, they'll stay that way. As for Dean, the real Dean, well let's just say that right now, he's exactly where he's supposed to be."


	29. The High Cost Of Living

Despite his reluctance Kendrick didn't dare drag his steps. Six centuries he'd managed to survive the plentiful inherent dangers of the realm of the damned. It hadn't been pleasant, to be sure, but he still preferred existence to oblivion. He would have to play things very carefully to survive this errand and testing the minimal patience of the Prince was not the road to that end.

It was too quiet for this part of Hell, which found unsettling. His footfalls echoed back to him off the dank walls of the torch lit hallway that should have been filled with the screams of the tormented and the wails of the broken. Instead, only one voice periodically disrupted the anomalous quiet with deep throated cries that served as a grim reminder to the unlucky demon as to the probable outcome of the mission with which he'd been tasked.

Arriving at his destination he allowed himself a brief moment's hesitation outside the heavy wrought iron bound door. In truth, there was no more danger in opening it than in failing to do so. Steeling himself with this knowledge he reluctantly pushed it open. The pungent odor of decay billowed out enshrouding him in a cloud of the stench.

Kendrick had been in chambers like this before of course, as an artisan, and before that, as the raw material. It was, like many others intended for the same purpose, furnished with a wide variety of sadistic devices designed not just for pain but to maximize feelings of helplessness and humiliation inspired in those restrained within them. Normally most would be occupied, the room resounding with anguished cries and desperate pleas, the air wafting with the tang of freshly spilt blood and the rank of loosened bile.

The torture chambers of Hell were busy places, teeming with the never ending labor of stripping away whatever humanity still clung to those that had condemned themselves there, like a perverse Santa's workshop. Teams of Satan's little helpers toiled endlessly at the task of keeping the roster of Hell's lowest ranks perpetually replenished.

This one, at this time however, had been cleared, set aside on Azazel's order for the private use of Hell's Grand Inquisitor, who did not greet interruption joyously.

Kendrick could hardly look upon the bound soul it burned so brightly. Hell-bound souls were, as a rule, fairly tarnished when they arrived, already darkened by the taint they'd put on themselves in life, which would only deepen until the darkness was all that remained. This one was a special case, which would have been evident even if he had not been told. The lesser demon marveled at Alastair's ability to maintain the scrutinous eye needed for his meticulous work when the best he himself could manage was brief glances, quickly forced to abortion by the harsh light.

The soul was secured on a breaking wheel, face up, spine forced to bow over the arc of the device, wrists shackled to the hub of the wheel so as to keep the arms from causing hindrance. Thick straps, festooned with archaic sigils held the head secure, ensuring that no thrash or flinch would spoil the master's careful craftsmanship.

Kendrick stood just inside the open door, not daring to cause any interruption or distraction. He'd have leapt at this opportunity under just about any other circumstances. Alastair's skills were legendary, the subject of both epic tale and whispered warning in even the darkest reaches of the pit. A chance to observe without being an unwilling participant in the proceedings was a rare thing. He watched, letting himself become absorbed in the perfect path the scalpel made through flesh and tendon as it sliced away a shilling thin strip of cheek.

One side was already completed, the soft bit sheered away, teeth and jaw laid bare to the joint, over what must have been hours of slow work. Discarded bits littered the floor like left over party ribbons, scattered about in the fluid that pooled from the still bleeding wound. Now Alastair worked to shape The other side to match. Each slice robbed a sliver more of the victim's former identity, transforming his visage into a mutilated parody of himself. Kendrick could think of no better allegory for the transformation that Hell wrought upon a soul. If art was a mirror held up to reality then that was truly what Alastair had achieved.

That, in and of itself, would have been a masterpiece, but as mark of true genius Alastair had even included the mirror itself in his composition. Angled to be visible to the tortured soul it created a temptation, played to the morbid curiosity that didn't allow humans for force their attention away from horrors they did not wish to see. "Meta" the youngsters would have called it.

Alastair provided two layers of torment, physical and psychological and then invited his charge to take part and visit a third upon himself, which he did because his human nature would not allow him to do otherwise. Taken all together the display was a thing of beauty. Kendrick hoped he would be allowed to continue existing long enough to fully appreciate it.

"I don't like to be interrupted when I'm working." Alastair spoke dismissively, not looking up from his consideration of the placement of his next incision.

Kendrick startled out of his intrigued admiration of the scene and remembered his purpose here. "Apologies, Sir, Lord Azazel wishes a report on you progress."

"Hmmm," Alastair didn't look up from his task, and at first Kendrick wasn't certain that he'd heard. "You can tell Azazel that I will be finished when I am finished and not before." he declared.

"Um, yes, Sir," the lesser demon shuffled his feet nervously, hopes sinking, "I could do that, to be sure, but, not wishing to be bold, Sir, if I did, what was left of me wouldn't have time to blow away before the next expendable functionary was standing right on this spot here, Sir, in search of a more acceptable answer. Your own interest may be best served by fulfilling the request and having done with it. With respect, Sir." He knew it was a gamble, but there was no better one.

Alastair paused, mulling that over, while Kendrick tried to keep his trembling to a minimum. "Dean," the elder demon eventually spoke, "we're going to have to take a bit of a break while I see to this. But no worries, I have a little something to keep you occupied while I'm away."

The torturer turned to his workbench, where an earthen crock sat nestled amongst an array of nasty looking tools of the trade. Alastair lifted the lid prompting an agitated hiss to erupt from within its depths. Dean's eye's flitted wearily towards the sound. The demon reached in and extracted a vile looking serpent. It thrashed in his hand, a protest to being handled, causing its glossy, barbed scales to scintillate from red to black. The thing hissed again, mouth gaping open impossibly wide to reveal twin fangs. A single droplet slipped from the tip of one of them and fell, smoking and hissing when it hit the floor.

"Yes, I know, pet," Alastair spoke soothingly to the incensed creature which writhed in his grasp, rasping out angry threats, "but we'll have you back inside, nice and warm, in just a moment."

Turning back to the bound captive he wrenched his jaw open with his free hand. "Open wide for me." the demon instructed. Held by the restraints, Dean attempts to turn away were doomed to fail. The damage to his cheeks and lips reduced his protests to incoherent garbles. Alastair fed the snake headfirst past what was left of the lips. Dean could only gag and sputter as the repulsive thing slithered its way down his throat to coil in his belly.

For a brief moment everything was still. Alastair waited, watching expectantly until, with an inhuman scream, Dean's body arched up as much as his bonds would allow. Through the sound the demon could make out the pop of something, a shoulder he guessed, dislocating. Dean collapsed back down, his chest heaving with gasping, ragged breathes.

Satisfied Alastair turned away and crossed the room to speak with Kendrick. Behind him a second scream erupted, higher pitched and more desperate than the first. The demon nodded in approval, knowing that Dean had now deduced the serpents intentions and understood that he had no recourse but to endure it. True, it lacked any real finesse, but it would fill the time that he had to step away without providing the mercy of a break. It would have to do.

"What Azazel does not understand is that torture is an art, not a science. There are no equations, no percentages. Results may be speculated, even predicted in some cases, but this is not one of them." he groused to the hapless messenger.

Kendrick was quick to respond, eager to divert Alastair's frustration away from himself, "I don't disagree, but my Lord grows impatient."

"Excrement!" Alastair barked, "Azazel doesn't grow impatient. He's been perpetually impatient for all the time I've known him, centuries, millennia."

"Might I suggest, Sir," the lesser demon ventured nervously, "if I could report what reaction there has been to the offer thus far, that may appease Lord Azazel for a time."

"There has been no reaction because there has been no offer yet." Alastair dismissed the suggestion.

"But, Sir, I don't understand. Why wouldn't you…" Kendrick clamped his mouth shut too late. Knowing he'd overstepped his place he braced himself for the inevitable destruction. So close, he thought regretfully.

Alastair, however, didn't seem angered. He regarded Kendrick with an assessing gaze. Most any demon will revel in any pain not its own, nature of the beast really, but in this one the torture master could see some hidden potential. It could be that he might be worthy of an apprenticeship. He found himself moved to impart a lesson.

"You see how that one shines?" he glanced over to where Dean contorted on the rack unable to escape as the serpent helped itself to bits of his innards to feather itself a new nest within him. "He is a truly untouched canvas, here through no fault of his own. More than that, he is damned by a noble sacrifice, his soul for his son's life."

"That sacrifice is a source of strength for him. It gives him comfort to believe that in his suffering he protects his son. He must come to realize that the moment is past. All that he could do for the boy was done the moment that he entered into the bargain. All that remains now is paying the price for all eternity. He doesn't see yet that he suffers needlessly, his pain doing nothing more for his son, only paying the debt already owed. When he understands this, the comfort of suffering nobly for a worthy cause will cease, the strength he draws from it will fade."

"Azazel's offer provides him with the power to effect his fate. In that power lies hope, another noble cause for which to suffer. Refusing to barter with demons gives his pain purpose. It could take decades to break through that resistance. These hero types can be frustratingly stubborn. This is why he must be driven to the point of having no hope, no power, no purpose, only the acceptance that his existence is now pain and only pain, without end, or even recess. Then, when a chance to escape that fate is dangled before him, he will leap at it. It will take far less time in the long run."

Kendrick nodded in understanding, "I fear that Lord Azazel doesn't share your eye for the finer points of the craft. He wants results and very likely will not leave you in peace until he gets them."

"This can not be rushed." Alastair complained. "It is not as simple a burning away the humanity. The prophecy requires a righteous man. This must be done delicately to ensure success. If he turns, it won't take and the chance is lost forever. I'm sure Azazel wouldn't want that."

No, he wouldn't, but Kendrick desperately wanted not to be the one that had to tell him so. "Without your understanding of the subtleties involved, I suspect my Lord's harassments of you will continue." he ventured. It was a dangerous move, pitting two powerful demons against one another in hopes of escaping the notice of both, but still better than returning to Azazel with this message on his lips.

The elder demon sighed, "You're probably correct." he admitted. Oh, how he hated political types, no vision, no appreciation of the service to one's art. It was all so tiresome. What a waste. This untainted soul had presented such a rare opportunity, a test worthy of his skills, to usher a good man into inhumane action while still retaining his humanity. Any fool with a knife could carve away the conscious leaving only the hunger of lust of one's own desires and the drive of greed to fulfill them. That was paint by number. This could have been a masterwork had he been allowed the time to do the job properly.

Still, the chance to return to his own pursuits, resume the experiments set aside in favor of Azazel's latest bit of dogmatic folly did hold a certain appeal. He did have his own hungers and drives after all.

All right, he decided, to lose what he'd gained in order to regain what he'd lost was a fair trade. "Inform Azazel," he instructed the messenger, "that there is a faster way, but it will require certain...sacrifices."


	30. House Of Memories

**?, ?, ?**

The room wasn't really decorated to Sam's taste but he could appreciate the artistry of it. Lots of intricate scroll work covered the moldings and the muted colors were calming. It was, at least, a comfortable place to have been put in storage.

His body was too long for the sofa that he lounged back on, his legs dangling over one armrest at the knee. It was one of those fancy ones, with no back and curved ends. There was a name for those, but Sam didn't recall what it was and wasn't interested enough to try. He was letting his eyes lazily follow the paths of the etchings near the ceiling, baroque he was pretty sure while he tried to make some sense of everything he had been told.

His family hadn't been church goers, not even Christmas and Easter, but you can't grow up in modern America without picking up at least the gist of contemporary Christianity. Most of Zachariah's briefing hadn't really been news to him. God created the universe. Lucifer got jealous and got evicted from Heaven. Then there was something about a judgment day, some acid trip of a prophecy involving the dead rising and giant snakes that Sam had mainly seen depicted on his brother's album covers.

That was the part he wished he'd paid more attention to now. It hadn't seemed all that important while he'd been alive. Sure, he had pretty much always believed that there must be something, he didn't know what, just something bigger than humanity out there. The idea that humankind might have somehow figured out what IT was and what IT wanted just wasn't realistic thinking however. He'd just followed his father's advice and tried to be the best man he could be.

Simple, easy, and as it turned out, apparently dead wrong, because IT, or at least, one of IT's angels, had just told Sam what IT wanted in plain English.

That had been a lot to digest. Sam's head had been spinning from it all by the time he'd insisted on a break to sort through it all. They'd told him to take all the time he needed and deposited him here, in what could have been the Pope's fainting room.

Honestly though, Sam wasn't thinking about the crash course in theology, or the implications of the implausible having turned out to be true. He was considering the source from which the revelation had come.

He wasn't sure he trusted Zachariah. He came across a little too oily for Sam's taste, like the guys with bad pick up lines that tended to get a face full of some girl's drink. OK, granted, angels were supposed to be the good guys. On the other hand, how did Sam know for sure that he was an angel? He only had the guy's own word for that.

That thought had caused a bit of a nasty shock. If he couldn't be sure anything this "angel" said was true then what about his family? Zachariah had said they were fine, but what proof did he have? Since then, any effort to focus on the matters at hand kept falling victim to the nagging concern that he'd been fed a bad pick up line.

Sam sighed in frustration, his mind looping around to start another lap around the track of circular logic. He kept getting lost in his thoughts just like his eye getting lost in the intertwined tangle of lines of the etchings and loosing it's place.

The sound of the door latch saved him from mental exercise. He pulled himself sitting and looked over to the opening door. A man, if you could call him that, his appearance put him around that age where neither man nor boy seemed like accurate terms, entered the room.

"I hope I'm not disturbing you." the newcomer spoke tentatively.

"No, it's fine." Sam rubbed at his eyes with the heels of his hands. "I can actually use a break," he admitted. "Don't tell me, another angel?"

"My name is Samandriel," the being confirmed, "and you are Sam Winchester, the chosen one."

"That's what they tell me." Sam replied. As wrapped up as he was in his own problems, he couldn't really be blamed for missing the angel's slightly star struck expression and the awe in his voice.

"I've been sent to see if you require anything." the new angel explained himself. "We want you to be comfortable during your considerations."

"All I require," Sam said, his frustration driving him to stand and pace a bit, "is to understand what's going on. I don't think you can help me with that."

"You seem troubled." the angel observed, a hint of confusion in his voice.

Sam's first instinct was to snap back with a sarcastic quip about stating the obvious, but he bit it back. There was the possibility that this really was an angel and some level of respect did seem to be in order. Besides, unlike Zachariah, this guy did seem sort of, well, angelic. At very least, he was a decent guy that sounded sincere. He ended up saying, "Yeah, I guess I am. I mean, I know your boss said that my family's OK, but…" he floundered, not able to find a tactful way to say, "I just met the guy and I don't really trust him."

"Your parents are...OK." Samandriel fumbled over the term as if it were unfamiliar to him. "I can show you, if you like."

"You can?" Sam pounced on the offer. This was great. If he could just know for sure then he could think straight about everything else.

"Of course," the angel told him, "I was instructed to provide whatever you requested. We can go whenever you like."

"Is now…" Sam began. Samandriel touched his shoulder and the sound of beating wings. When Sam finished, "too soon?" he found he was standing in a place he knew very well. Dean had taught him how to block a punch not far from where they stood. It had been during the drama surrounding his first girlfriend. First year of law school, he and John had shared their first real man to man talk over by the outdoor grill on the porch.

Sam stared at the woman who stood there now, struck by how much she resembled Mary. The hair was the same color, and she even had Mary's sort of sad smile, but there were no wisps of gray. No creases at the corners of her eyes. This younger woman was so much the image of his mother he could have believed he'd traveled back in time. With a jolt he remembered that **that** could very well be the case.

He turned his attention to the dark haired man that stood near them on the grass, smiling happily, playing catch with a boy that looked to be around five years of age.

"Dad?" Sam asked uncertainly, taking a hesitant step forward, but the man just dodged to one side, moving to intercept the ball the boy had thrown.

"They can't see or hear us, Sam." his companion explained, "It's against the rules."

"What rules?" Sam asked, confused. "No, you know what, never mind, this isn't what I meant. I want to see my parents now." His mind churned over the fact that, under the circumstances, those words didn't really convey his meaning very well. He tried again, "I mean, like, where they are, right now." That wasn't really any better. He searched for a way to explain.

"I don't understand." Samandriel said, sounding like he really was trying to. "This **is **where they are now. This is their Heaven. Souls are rarely allowed are allowed to share like this. They must have been a very special case."

"Their...Heaven?" Sam struggled to get the words out, tumblers clicking into place in his head, "You mean...they're...dead?" The wail of a small voice pierced the air, punctuating the question.

"Well, yes," Samandriel supplied haltingly, truly not understanding the human's reaction. This was what he had said he wanted after all, but Sam seemed upset for reasons that eluded him.

Sam whirled around to face the angel. "You said they were OK!" he bellowed. He'd believed Samandriel. The sharp stab of betrayal fueled his angry accusation.

"They **are** OK." the angel pointed out. How could Sam not see that when they were right there in front of him? "They're at peace." he tried to explain. "They'll never know pain or want again." Sam's state had the poor angel completely confounded.

Sam fumed, silently debating the merits of trying to explain what "OK" meant in human terms but decided against it. What would be the point? Samandriel understanding wouldn't change anything.

From across the yard, a small, earnest voice reached him, "Sammy, hey Sammy, it's all right. You're not hurt." The toddler's yells grew louder and something about them tugged at Sam's insides. It just wasn't fair.

"How did it happen?" he asked darkly.

Samandriel felt he was losing control of the situation. His orders had been to make sure the chosen had been satisfied and content. This outing didn't seem to be fulfilling either of those criteria, and he honestly couldn't fathom just where things had gone wrong. "Sam," he spoke soothingly, hoping to head things off before they got any worse.

"How did they die?" Sam barked, not interested in anything but an answer to his question.

The angel had to take a step back. The emotion radiating off the human soul was palatable. Samandriel could only feel the edge of it, just a fraction, and still the intensity weighed on him. It was all anger and fear and confusion twisted up into a writhing, pulsing mass. He had to wonder how a human soul, so small, so fragile, could bear the full force of it. It seemed there was more to humans than he had ever taken the time to consider.

He tried to regain his composure and control of the situation. Making decisions wasn't something he was used to and he wasn't certain what to do. He had been instructed to provide whatever Sam requested, and Sam was certainly making his wishes known. Refusing to answer would technically be a disobedience to his orders, but somehow, it felt like a mistake.

"Demons," he said reluctantly, feeling the knowledge would just make things worse. "Mary, well she was determined to avenge your death. She rushed into a battle that was beyond her skills. John was…" The angel hesitated, then decided it was permissible to err on the side of tact, "sleeping. A demon was looking for your br..."

"What are you two doing in here?" a voice demanded, interrupting. The pair turned to where Zachariah stood, his false smile replaced with a darker expression that Sam felt looked a lot more natural on him.

"He wanted to see his parents." Samandriel explained, "You said to…"

"Yes, I see what happened." Zachariah's voice was annoyed when he interrupted. "You can go, Samandriel. I'll clean this up myself." Without another word, the lesser angel was gone.

Sam was more than happy to turn his anger on a more deserving target. "You lied to me." he growled an accusation.

"I didn't lie." Zachariah defended himself, brushing aside Sam's anger as a matter of no consequence. "I just conveniently defined some key words in order to influence the implication."

"Sort of like you're doing now." Sam shot back.

"All right, all right, I tried to deal off the bottom and you caught me." the angel admitted, "That's all water under the bridge. The fact remains that Earth's clock is ticking and you're the one that can stop it, so let's not waste a bunch of time on a whole lot of he said/she said, all right?"

Sam had decided he's had enough double talk. "Put me back where you found me." he instructed, making it clear that no other option was up for consideration.

"Now, Sam," Zachariah tried.

"Put, me, back," Sam repeated. He didn't know what Zachariah's game was, or what he'd hoped to accomplish by dragging Sam into it and he didn't care. As far as he was concerned, the whole thing had been a pack of lies. Lucifer rising, world ending, yeah right, and the tooth fairy was real.

Zachariah's painted on smile melted into an annoyed scowl. He wished he could just force this little worm to comply but that was one of the few things beyond his abilities. The rules were clear, true consent, freely given. There was no real choice but to fall back, regroup, and think of a different approach.

"Yeah well, when I made that rule I assumed that I'd be the one driving my own car." Dean snapped.

Sam didn't respond.

"Hey, Sammy," Dean snapped his fingers in front of his brother's glazed over eyes, "you OK? You kinda checked out on me there."

Sam blinked, shaking off the strange daydream. "Uh, yeah," he murmured, not sounding convincing.

"OK, that's it," Dean announced shoving Sam as he slid across the seat, "Get out. No way you're driving my car while you're still rocking last night's drunk."

"What?" Sam asked, confused, "Oh, yeah, you're probably right." He opened the door and made way for Dean to reclaim his rightful place behind the wheel. Still a little blurry he swept his gaze around the parking lot, looking for he wasn't sure what and trying to remember what it was he'd just been thinking about.


	31. That Which Does Not Kill Me

"I don't like this plan." the yellow eyes, devoid, as they always were, of any hint of emotion were more than compensated for by his countenance. It was not hard to tell when the reigning Price of Hell was displeased. "Do you know the work I've put in on this job? The time it took?" he hammered at his point.

Alastair resisted the urge to roll his eyes. No sense in provoking further dramatics. "Time," he observed calmly, "it's all about the time, isn't it? Your time table is fine. You picked a winner out of your first lottery. You, my friend, are way ahead of schedule. If you would allow me the time** I **need to do **my** job properly, this plan wouldn't be necessary at all. But, it's all about the time, so if you want faster, this is the way."

"And if it goes wrong?" Azazel challenged, "Then we're right back at the starting gate." His eyes would have sharpened if they were able, "Do I need to spell out what that would mean for you?"

Alastair silently dismissed the threat. It was true that the Prince was one of the few demons more powerful than himself. It was also true that there was more to Hell than brute force. Hell was a game of move and counter move and Alastair trusted that it was a game that he played with greater mastery. Centuries that Azazel had wasted, distracted by his fanatical search, absent from his throne more often than not, Alastair had spent securing his position, amassing his own cadre of acolytes. No move the Prince could realistically make against him would be likely to rise above the level of petty annoyance. "Nothing will go wrong." he evenly assured the other demon. "The prophecy only requires that blood be shed. Once that is done, he can easily be pulled back. The girl will suffer no lasting damage."

"She'd better not." Azazel threatened darkly. He really didn't like this plan, at all.

**XXXXX**

Dean didn't know how long he's been locked in the cell. In isolation, with nothing with which to gauge the passage of time, there was no way to even hazard a guess with any hope of accuracy. Had he been alive, the arrival of an occasional meal might have provided some point of reference, an assurance that time was, in fact, passing. As it was, he couldn't really be certain that it even was.

He'd been taken from the rack and dumped here, like an unused piece of furniture put into storage. The worst of his injuries had been healed, anything that would have proven fatal if he could actually die. The minor ones had been left to mend on there own. While it had lasted, the fading of bruises and the closing of wounds had given him some sense of the stretch of seconds into minutes, hours into days.

Now, no one came and nothing changed. It didn't matter that the box of a cell had no window because there was no sun or moon to mark the change of day into night. Were there even days and nights in hell? He didn't know.

All he had known since his arrival had been the continuous tortures, pain extreme and constant except for the times he'd been healed, Alastair cleaning the slate, providing a fresh surface on which to craft his next psychotic rendering.

Those were brief moments of relief that Dean had learned to cling to, keeping the memory alive as long as he could against the sensations of whatever fresh horror was visited upon him. He'd sustain himself, as best he could, through the torment with the knowledge that relief would come. Short lived thought it may be, eventually, Alastair would want a new beginning on some different assault on Dean's soul, and for a glorious, all too brief moment, he would be whole and healthy.

In its way, the cell was worse than the rack. The pain was at least expected. He knew what was coming. His circumstance had a consistency that had become an anchor of sorts, given him a certainty about his future. There was no worry about nasty surprises or debates about the best course of action. Those concerns were part of a life he'd left behind, the result of the last decision he'd ever made, the last decision he'd ever be allowed.

Here, however, there was nothing but concern. Without the immediate threat of skin or bone about to be broken by some device too sick and twisted to have been conceived of by humankind, the uncertainty of what was coming was its own kind of torment. The routine had changed, and now, he had no idea what to expect, or when. He just knew, whatever he was waiting for, it couldn't possibly be good.

In weaker moments, he almost wished to be back on the rack. At least there, things made sense. He knew the rules. Sporadic breaks in the maddening pain would be short and beyond his ability to control. There was nothing he could do to earn them. They were not a reward, just an essential part of the process that happened as Alastair required. All he could do was draw strength from the previous one while he held out til the next, simple.

This break though, it could last all the rest of eternity for all he knew, but that could never be any comfort. Any moment it could end and he would never know which might be the last moment of peace for him. Unlike the rack, where he knew his freedom from the pain would be short, maybe only seconds, and he could indulge fully in reveling in those precious ticks of the clock, here the conflict of the desire for something to happen and the fear that something might wouldn't allow him to ever truly relax. Given the choice, would he willingly return to the rack? He didn't know anymore. But that didn't matter. He didn't get choices anymore. Those were the rules.

Wishing he could think about something else, he curled himself into the now familiar corner. He'd discovered, quite by accident, that if he sat just right, craned his neck at just the right angle, he could barely make out a torch that burned down the hallway. The find had thrilled him at first, bringing with it the thought that eventually it would burn out, need replacing. Someone would come. Something would happen!

He'd watched it faithfully, determined to learn how long it would take for it to burn itself to nothingness and thus gain a means of marking time in his unchanging eternity. It had been with bitter disappointment and deep reluctance that he'd eventually had to accept that while it burned, it didn't consume. It was just eternal, like everything else in this god forsaken, black hole of a hell.

But, it moved, at least it moved. It changed and that was all he had, watching the dance of the flame and the shadows it sent flitting across the wall as he recited Black Sabbath lyrics to himself. In his weakest moments, it kept him from breaking, from howling into the dark corridor with pleas to be taken from this everlasting moment of uncertainty and returned to the bite of the blade and the burn of the brand, to be allowed to exist again, even if that existence was only pain.

It kept him from breaking...so far.

**XXXXX**

Who knew what kind of new horror Hell might be keeping hidden behind a closed door. Dean would have liked to have believed that he'd been prepared for anything. His experiences thus far had been ample enough that he knew the nature of Hell. Pain was no surprise, only the variety of it held any mystery. He'd become well schooled in the distinctions of an incision versus a gash, a slow burn versus an abrupt one. Dean doubted by now that there was any kind of agony that would be new to him. Alastair had been inexhaustible in both his creativity and the time he was willing to devote to his art.

The demon escort had not been talkative as the pair traversed the corridors from Dean's isolated cell, not even acknowledging his questions. When shoved roughly through the doorway Dean had tried to brace himself, fully aware that an assault on his senses could, probably would, explode on him just by passing the threshold.

Discovering himself in a sparsely furnished, pretty boring room was, quite frankly, anti-climatic.

It was finding the room occupied by Alastair that unsettled him. His brain tripped over its confusion and the demon had to shove him again to get him moving deeper inside. This wasn't the way it worked. He got trussed up like the first victim in a bad 70s horror film and Alastair came to him, some sadistic tool at hand with which to drive him closer to madness. He did not go to Alastair, certainly not unrestrained, able to at least attempt some futile form of resistance or defense. This wasn't right. There were rules, a routine. He felt an uneasy panic rising in him without understanding why.

Nervously he glanced about, looking for the even more sinister device that he was sure must be housed here. The only furnishings, however, seemed to be a single chair and a small table. It made no sense and a cold, prickly feeling crept up from his stomach. There were rules.

At a nod from Alastair, he was pushed into the chair. He offered only the barest resistance, his mind struggling to process that, so far, he hadn't been hurt, that his surroundings included no imminent threat that he could see.

"Dean," Alastair spoke, "I want to thank you for joining me."

"You make it sound as if I had a choice." Dean ventured. What the hell, whatever was going on, it wasn't like there was any way he could make it any worse, right? Might as well take his digs where he could since it wouldn't matter anyway, "What's with the break in the regularly scheduled programming?"

Alastair regarded him wordlessly, causing him to debate the wisdom of having mouthed off. "When we resume, we must work on your manners." Alastair scolded him.

"But, that will have to keep." the torture master continued as he moved towards a door opposite the one through which Dean had entered, "Right now, I have a surprise for you. I think you'll like it."

Dean flinched when the door was opened. Whatever he'd been waiting for was about to happen, and he doubted that he'd agree with Alastair about liking it. Suddenly, forever alone and unharnessed didn't seem so bad.

Hell born monstrosities hatched by Dean's imagination did nothing to prepare him for the arrival of what was an, apparently, human girl. She was short and a bit full figured, with a round face that made her look like the grown up version of a Cabbage Patch Doll. Dean watched wearily as she emerged through the now open door to survey the room with bored disinterest.

"Dean," Alastair addressed him, "this is Ava. I felt it was important that the two of you meet considering that Ava is the one that killed your brother. Isn't that right, my dear?"

The initial shock froze him for a period of time too short to really measure. Then the rage rose, brushing it aside. He launched himself out of the chair with a cry that could more accurately be called a snarl, the primal noise of an animal whose instinct was prodding it towards the kill. He'd barely risen when he was slammed back sitting with enough force to drive the chair back a few inches.

"Did I?" Ava asked, unconcerned about the commotion, "I don't remember. I had to kill a lot of people before it was all over."

"I'm sure you'd remember Sam." Alastair prompted her, "He was one of the last batch, the very tall boy."

"Oh, him," Ava responded dismissively after a moment thought, "Yeah, I remember." She turned to face Dean, "I remember that his size had me worried. I almost took him out before he woke up, but the rules said that everybody had to get a fair shot at the title. I was going to do him as soon as he woke up, squeak by on a technicality, but the mousy, little bundle of nerves was walking up on us. I didn't want to tip my hand, so he got to live another couple of hours. I shouldn't have worried. For such a big guy, he went down easy. He was actually kind of a pussy."

"You bitch!" Dean yelled, struggling against the inadvisable bonds.

"Easy there, Dean," Alastair cautioned him. The razor sharp blade that the demon brandished in his face filled his range of vision. The freshly sharpened twin edges invoked memories and made silent promises. Dean shrank back from it, all too aware of what Alastair was capable of doing with such a tool, and exactly what it would feel like.

"This will probably be your only chance to ever hear the whole story." Alastair continued, "It'd be a shame if I had to take your tongue to keep you from interrupting.

Dean had been taught better than to think there was any chance that the threat was an idle one. He flinched instinctively when the point flicked lightly at his jaw. It barely broke the skin, not much more than shaving nick, but the psychological impact could not be denied.

Dean's anger still burned, hot and hungry for bloody vengeance, but the fear that had been trained into him was a lot to overcome. If only there was something he could do...but there wasn't. His body sagged as he allowed himself to accept it. There was no sense in getting all cut up for no reason.

"That's a good boy." Alastair praised him. Dean couldn't bring himself to look up, not until he heard the thunk of the dagger being stabbed into the wooden tabletop drew his attention. There it sat, serving as a grim reminder for him to mind his manners, but also mocking him by being just beyond his reach, letting him stew over the thoughts of just what he could do with it, if only he were able to get himself free.

"You were saying, Ava?" the demon invited her to continue, and just like that, the moment was over, whatever opportunity that may have existed gone because he had not acted quickly enough.

Ava resumed her tale, enjoying being the center of all the attention, "Now the soldier guy, what was his name? Jack? Something like that, he was a challenge. Must have been the Army training. He knew how to sneak and hide. And smart, once he figured out that iron would make the acheri go poof, he had a real shot, all holed up in that booby trapped bunker of his. Too bad for him all that Superman strength wasn't going help him against a hellhound. He never saw it coming."

Dean didn't get the joke and Alastair found it banal, so Ava was alone in her laughter. It faded uncomfortably when she realized. Not happy about that she met Dean's eye before vindictively moving on with her narrative. "Your brother though, what was his name? Stan? I never bothered to find out. He was easy. Let the acheri run right up on him, even after he saw what it was. Just froze like a deer in the headlights. Stupid, wanna-be, do-gooder traded in his bleeding heart for an actual bleeding heart."

Again she laughed at her own joke, but this one mutated into a startled squeal, that largely got lost in the clatter of the table flying across the room. Dean was somehow on his feet, the demon's dagger in his hand. He closed on her, his eye's sharp with the glint of a predator.

Ava backpedaled clumsily away from his approach, haughty arrogance replaced with confused panic. This was not what she had been told to expect. With her attacker almost on her, she frantically threw her arms up protectively. Dean slashed with the dagger which, honed to a fine edge, sliced neatly into her forearm. Blood well up quickly to fill the shallow wound.

Off in the distance, something like the roll of a kettle drum amplified into a deep rumble of thunder. The sound grew until the reverberations shook the walls of the room and pounded within the chests of everyone in it. Under their feet, the floor shivered and then heaved upward, like the final gasp of a dying animal.

Bracing himself against the wall, where he'd stood discreetly watching the proceedings, Dean's demon guard recognized his cue to act. He raised his hand, ready to slap his charge back on the invisible leash. The cloud of black smoke that appeared where he had stood dispersed quickly.

The noise built to a crescendo of a crack like the fissuring of stone, and then, as suddenly as it had begun, it was over.

Dean regained his footing. He didn't care about the eruption or what may have caused it. Only the hunt in front of him held any meaning. He continued his advance. Ava, eyes wide with disbelieving fear, shrank back from him.

"Stop him!" she screeched at Alastair, "Do you know who I am?" A surprised squeak announced that her back had found the wall. While trying to dart to the side she made another desperate appeal to the demon, "I order you to…" the rest was cut off when Dean's hand shot out, taking hold of her throat, pinning her to the wall behind her.

"You are no one who can issue orders to me." Alastair informed her coldly. He trusted that the Prince would understand his message. Alastair would not tolerate being pushed, by anyone.

Strangled protest tried to force their way through her constricted windpipe as her feet scrambled beneath her, looking for purchase on a floor she could barely reach with the tips of her toes. Her hands clawed uselessly at Dean's arm, trying to free herself.

Leaning in, Dean brought himself face to face with his brother's killer. Nothing mattered, not Alastair, or Hell, or any price to be paid somewhere down the road. He would have this moment. To hell with whatever came after.

He indulged in the sight of her, struggling ineffectively in his grasp. "His name," he said, taking care to pronounce each word slowly and precisely, "was Sam."

With that, he thrust the dagger up sharply. It pierced smoothly into her belly, severing skin and muscle and driving easily into the vital tings that lay beneath.

A gurgling, pained cry stuttered out of her. Dean could feel it as it vibrated against his palm, fighting its way past the obstruction. Every sensation was like a caress to his senses, the sound of her cries, the warm, sticky feel of her blood running wet over his fingers, the glorious, **glorious** smell of her fear. It wasn't enough, not by half.

His lip twitched back into a vicious sneer and he wrenched the blade sharply to one side inside of her. Acid from her ruptured stomach and sliced intestines spilled into her system. Fresh waves of burning pain made her body spontaneously curl up on itself.

The wound gushed, spilling blood, and fluid. Red dots sprinkled on the floor at their feet like a macabre confetti and then were lost in the growing blot.

Dean twisted the already hilt deep dagger, jamming it in deeper. The ragged, torn flesh pressed against his hand, warm and tacky with blood. Ava's scream was choked off by the fluid that rushed to fill her windpipe. She gagged on it, and it gurgled out, crimson over her lips.

Dean moved in, the same move that in another place, under other circumstances, would have been seductive. His lips almost touching her ear he whispered to her, "Sam Winchester." He didn't care enough to even consider whether she was still coherent enough to understand. "And you're going to remember it for the rest of your life." he growled.

A spasm of coughs wracked through her, spraying blood across his cheek. Something dark in him howled its approval.

He pulled away from her, pausing to examine the broken thing under his hand, barely clinging to life, too weak to struggle further. Desperate eyes made pleas for mercy that her voice could no longer manage.

Slowly, savoring it, he closed his hand on her throat, letting his fingers dig in to the soft flesh. He leaned forward, letting his weight come to bear on her neck, watched the panic in her eyes until the satisfying pop of her airway splintering and crushing under his hand. The life went out of her and Dean soaked it all up with bestial glee.

He let the body fall at his feet and looked down at with contempt. The would be Queen of Hell lay, a mangled and broken toy, in a pool of her own blood. Dispassionately Dean wiped the still warm blood from his cheek with the back of his hand. His voice was rough and ragged when he said again, "His name was Sam."


End file.
